


for every lie i unlearn.

by reddoorandlemontree



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-War for the Dawn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-01-05 21:16:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12197589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reddoorandlemontree/pseuds/reddoorandlemontree
Summary: a slightly au future, takes place months after the war is won.





	1. Chapter 1

Daenerys was exhausted, to say the least.

"I still do not see the point of wasting coin on a tourney while Eastwatch remains a ruin, and the Reach is devastated."

"Because, your Grace," Tyrion responds, clearly trying to maintain his patience, "the common folk need a distraction. The morale is, to be frank, non-existent, and your people haven't seen you since the coronation, if you can even call it that. Besides, the ravens have already been sent, at your approval, of course."

She goes to repeat, for what feels like the hundredth time, that it still seems unnecessary, but is cut off by Missandei standing in the doorway.

"I believe the Princess needs you, your Grace, she won't stop crying."

Daenerys nods and goes to dismiss her Hand, when he says, "Your Grace, you really should consider hiring a wet nurse. You are a Queen, after all, and the sole ruler at that. I'm sure the babe would be well cared for."

She shoots him a glare. "She is my daughter, I am not going to hand her over to a maid to feed," she says, trying to keep the malice out of her voice.

So soon after such a difficult birth, the stairs prove to be a challenge. Most of the Red Keep had been destroyed in the war, but the western towers remained, so here she slept, ate, had small council meetings in her solar, and rearranged the adjacent room as a nursery.

She finds it bustling, as three maids attempt to ease the Princess's crying. Barely a fortnight old, and her screams could wake up half the tower.

She picks the child up from her crib, a small smile forming on her lips as the wails begin to subside at her touch.

Daenerys had refused all the maids and advisors insisting her to give the child to a wet nurse. These moments with her sweet babe are the only times she feels at peace, nowadays. She can't bear to give them up even if it does mean that she has to work twice as hard to attend to her queenly duties.

Red from crying, the Princess's cheeks are streaked with drying tears.

Daenerys smooths her thumb over the soft skin. "Rhaella," she whispers.

She opens her eyes, lashes still wet, and looks up to her mother.

When Daenerys had first held her as a newborn, despite her elation otherwise, a small part of her had been disappointed to see the silver locks on her daughter's head. Secretly, she had hoped to find raven curls. When Rhaella opened her eyes, however, she had been struck by how exact they are to her father's -- a grey so deep, they seem almost black. It had made a pin drop in her stomach.

 _Jon_.

She wishes she could say that she can't even remember when they last spoke, but that would be a lie. She remembers every conversation, all of them cold and formal toward the end, and every letter he had sent since, each a blunt report of their progress on rebuilding the destroyed parts of the Wall.

She'd also be lying if she said she didn't see the purpose of a tourney. The country is in shambles. The living had won the war but at a great expense, and a painful lull had fallen over each person. A tourney would rejoice them; singers would fill the streets, children would jump to see their favorite knights, lord and ladies would have something to focus on, other than the seemingly endless reconstruction and loss.

Still, a tourney would mean having to face him again. Would he be angry at her? She wonders if he'd have the audacity.

Sated, Rhaella falls asleep on Daenerys's chest, who places a kiss to the soft curls and lays her back into the crib, a regal piece of rich cherry. Everything in the room, from the soft silks that swaddled her child, to the ornate chair she was fed on, was royal. Daenerys was determined to provide every luxury and happiness she had forgone growing up herself, yet she could never hope to fill the empty void where a loving father would be.

"Your Grace," Missandei calls from behind, "the petitioners request your attention."

"'Coming," Daenerys sighs, buttoning up the front of her dress. She wipes at a tear that had unbeknowingly rolled down her cheek.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if it's unclear, both of these chapters take place at the same time, just different parts of the continent. again, thanks for reading, and tell me your thoughts!

With the end of winter, the harsh snows had subsided, giving way to a relentless rain.

As soon as the Night King had been brought to his demise, Jon had taken up the task of rebuilding the parts of the Wall that had been destroyed. Aye, the Long Night was over but the White Walkers had been thought to have disappeared once before, yet they returned. If they were to rise again, how ever many decades from now that may be, at least the dead would be stalled long enough for the future generations to prepare.

It was tedious work, even with hundreds of men at it everyday. He threw himself into the heart of it all, working alongside them all day, and sometimes even returning at night when his mind refused to quieten or his dreams became unbearable.

It gave him something to do, not allowing much room for thoughts of anything else.

Now, though, it was time to face the reality of it all -- or at least the small portion of it that he could bear. It had been over four moons since he last saw Arya, Sansa, Bran, _her_.

The underlying bitter taste of regret refused to leave, no matter how much he asserted himself into his work. The revelation of his parentage had created a chasm he hadn't even attempted to breach. _She's my blood_ , Jon tries to justify, but it's a fickle attempt.

When last he saw her, she had been atop Drogon, tears angry and agonizing as she commanded the dragon to burn his brother, though he was but a hull of the Viserion she had raised from a mere hatchling.

Jon had fallen to his knees, then, Longclaw clattering on the icy ground, and thanked her with everything within him. With a heavy heart, he had left that night, riding for the Wall.

He misses her, _Gods_ , does he miss her -- the glint in her eyes when she smiles, the cadence of her laughter, the silver tresses he loves so, the feel of her pressed up against him in the night -- each little thing haunting him through every sound and touch.

His regrets amount to nothing, though. Even if he did go to King's Landing and apologize, beg her to forgive him, to accept him, to love him, no woman in her right mind should comply. A queen, nonetheless, deserved much better than a bastard-made-Lord who didn't have the courage to face his lover.

He had questioned his decision to ride for Winterfell a million times too, before finally leaving. With Sansa as Lady of Winterfell, he knows that the North is in good hands during his absence, but his heart aches to see his family again. And so, he had left with Alyn and Gale, both but boys from Wintertown who he thinks would appreciate seeing their own families again.

The rain, incessant and heavy, is like a treacherous curtain in that they can barely see a couple feet ahead of them. The horses tire quickly, and the discomfort grows as their days go on.

He can't remember the journey being nearly as long when he had last made it. It has been over a fortnight since he left Eastwatch and they have only just passed the Long Lake. As the rain thunders down, Jon signals for them to stop at the small inn he remembers passing on his way North.

Upon seeing the new guest without his hood, the stable boy gasps and stutters a greeting before tending to their horses. The main room, with sparsely occupied tables and a blazing fire in the hearth, is cozy enough.

Kora, who owns the inn, greets them warmly and is quick to set hot bowls stew on their table.

"Thank you," he smiles to her, as she nods in acknowledgement. The men around him resume their conversations soon enough, venturing from some drunkard telling a story about a whore he once met, swearing she was from one of Lys's pleasure houses, to a young girl tugging on her fathers sleeves, begging him to take her to King's Landing to see the tourney. ("Will it be like the ones in the songs, Papa?")

_Wait -- tourney?_

Jon whirls around, making sure he had heard right, as the girl goes on about gallant knights. Clearing his throat, he asks Kora, "There's a tourney being held?"

She looks to him in surprise. "You haven't heard, m'Lord? Ah, you probably left before word could reach Eastwatch," she says casually, cleaning the table next to them. "It's a moon from now, to celebrate the new Princess."

 _The new Princess_. He feels his heart stop for a moment, then beat frantically against his ribcage, as if making up for the lost time. No, surely his ears betrayed him this time. The Queen -- _Dany_ \-- had bore a Princess. That would mean... but how could it be? A _babe_....

"Kora, are you _certain_?"

"Well, of course," she smiles, turning towards the kitchen with a basket of plates at her hip. As if just an afterthought, she adds, "Princess Rhaella, she's called."

And then it's as if the cozy little room is way too small, suffocating, even, the air not enough for his burning lungs. A thousand images flash before him, of Daenerys telling him about a witch, of his hands on her bare stomach, imagining it swollen with life, of her flying into battle on Drogon, of the large cloaks she always had wrapped around herself toward the end of war. "I need to..." he mumbles.

"Are you alright, m'Lord?" one of the boys asks, Alyn or Gale, he can't focus enough to tell which.

He looks up at them, finally, clearing his mind for just a moment. "Stay as long as you need, go home -- here," he says, handing them a few dragons each, which should be more than enough for a weeks stay. "I need to go." Jon gets up, pushing the unfinished stew towards them, and makes his way to the door before either of them can question him -- before he can question himself.

Outside, the rain has settled somewhat, a heavy fog taking its place. Jon finds the stable boy and presses a random handful of coins into his palm before demanding the fastest horse.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for the delay, the next few chapters will be posted sooner, I promise.
> 
> In case the timeline is a little confusing for this, she's about 6-8 weeks when they reach Winterfell, the war is won ( and Jon leaves for Easywatch) as her second trimester is about to end. Fast forward 3-4 months, the Princess is born, which Jon finds out two weeks later and begins to ride South.
> 
> Also, I'm basing the logistics of this off of my sister's pregnancy, where she was barely showing at first but as soon as she reached five/six months, her belly popped, but I still wrote that Daenerys stuck to wearing oversized cloaks during the war.
> 
> Okay, that's all! Sorry for boring you. x

He finds himself at her door again.

The dragon sigil is missing, this time, but a million memories from nights on the ship come to him.

Jon can't remember feeling this many emotions before -- a maelstrom of anger, euphoria, confusion, trepidation -- all grasping at him and fighting to see which will win over.

A journey that should have taken at least one moon turn, he had made in half the time. He exchanged his horse for a fresh mount at every chance, well over-paying the stable masters and keeping his hood up. The weather had favored him, with only a flood at the Neck, and a light drizzle as he entered the Crownlands a week later. Alas, the long-awaited spring has arrived, in the green life emerging between the cracks in the smaller cobblestone roads, in the vines that grow leaves anew on the sides of buildings, in the yellow and red flowers that speckle the fields where, not so long ago, lay the dead.

 _Rhaella_.

Through the days of riding, he had spent countless hours thinking about what she would look like, how it would feel to hold her in his own arms. He can't even conjure an image but hopes that she will be like Daenerys in both features and mind.

He had also replayed every conversation between them, as best as he could remember, at least. She must have at least hinted at being with child, _his_ child, in all those hours they spent together after arriving at Winterfell. Nothing comes to mind, though, as every encounter was all war strategy, curt responses, and stolen glances.

The raging part of him wants to grab her by the shoulders and ask what excuse she could possibly have that justifies not telling him about their child.

And that's when a new fear hits him.

What if Daenerys doesn't want him to be a part of his child's upbringing at all? It was already painful beyond measure, trying to erase the memories of her; could he really keep himself away, knowing that the Princess was his own blood?

He doesn't know how long he's been standing there but when the two guards eye each other awkwardly, he knows it must've been a while

They had refused to let him enter the gates, at first. The moon was high in the sky, signaling midnight, but he had insisted, saying it was urgent. The two Unsullied had wordlessly escorted him to her chambers once he told them who he was.

Jon finally lifts his fist up to knock, barely hearing his knuckles come into contact with the door as blood rushes past his ears.

The door creaks open and his breathing, previously heavy and fast, leaves him entirely.

Her hair is free of its elaborate braids, the way it looked when he would comb them out with his fingers long, long ago, and the simple robes she wears have sleeves that hit the floor. She looks exhausted, with a dark ring under each eye. _Her eyes_. Oh, that's the worst pain, it has to be. They are wide in shock, a most melancholy lilac.

Jon doesn't know what he wants to do -- kiss her with every ounce of love in him, or shake her by the shoulders, for how could she do this?

It's the shuffle of one of the Unsullied that brings them back to their senses.

She drops her hand off the door, wordlessly allowing him in. He does so, not leaving her eyes for a moment, and closes the door behind him.

"Jon," she whispers, as if not quite sure if she's still trapped in some dream.

"Daenerys," he says, finally letting the breath escape his lungs. Never one for flights of fancy, he goes straight for the question he already knows the answer to, but words betray him. "Is she...?"

Daenerys is the one to look away first, lowering her gaze to her folded hands, as she gives a near imperceptible nod.

The anger resurfaces and this time, he doesn't let his words be restrained, saying "You didn't even _think_ to tell me?", his tone harsh. It's not yelling, but he has never behaved this way towards her. Jon notices her flinch slightly yet the seething need for answers overshadows his guilt. "You could've have written to me, stopped me before I left for the Wall, told me when we were in Winterfell, something, _anything_. I would have--"

"You couldn't even stand to look me in the eye after you found out about Rhaegar!" she cuts, with equal fervor. "You would have done what? Come to me, to _us_ , because it's your _duty_? Asked to marry me because your _honor_ compels it?"

Daenerys spits the words like venom and they sting even more because he knows that they would have been true if she had told him while he was still in his initial state of shock. Still... "You have no idea, do you?" he asks without entirely looking for a response, thinking back to the sleepless nights and grueling days where he would yearn for her touch, her voice, her love.

And that's when Jon hears the first cry. The anger dissipates in an instant, filled with wonder, instead, as the sound registers. Lips agape, he looks to her with wide eyes, brows slanted upward in the middle.

Daenerys shoots him an accusatory glare before making her way to the door and entering the adjacent room. She leaves the door ajar, which he interprets as a signal to follow.

Back towards him, Daenerys picks up a small bundle from a crib that seems all too big for the little thing.

She begins to rock the child, cooing quietly until the screams reduce to half-hearted cries.

Daenerys turns around, finally, eyes doe-like and almost nervous when they lift to his.

He finally looks down to the little pink face swathed in cream silks and she hears his breath hitch. _Oh, she's perfect_.

"May I?" Jon asks so quietly he thinks she may not have heard until she begins to walk toward him.

He reaches his hands out and notices they're trembling. She's lighter and smaller than he expected, and he holds her with a delicacy he did not know he could possess after a lifetime of wielding swords. Jon grazes his thumb across a pink cheek and the wispy silver curls that escape the silks. Her eyes open ever so slowly. They're grey, so much like his own, and he fails to stifle a small sob.

He forgets the anger, the war, the truth, he forgets it all, for there will be time later for it, as the babe frees a hand from the wraps. Tiny fingers grip his own large one with a strength that seems too mighty for the chubby little things. He presses a kiss to the whitening knuckles and another to her forehead.

Finally looking up, the biggest of smiles on his lips, he finds Daenerys's eyes spilling tears too.

As Rhaella's slowly blink shut, she steps close, not bothering to wipe her cheeks, and gently takes the child from him. A small part of Jon breaks, wondering if that will be the last time he will get to hold her, and his fingers itch to just caress her face one last time before letting go.

Easing her into the crib, Daenerys turns to find him looking at her with that look she could recognize blind-folded -- the one he first gave her after bending the knee and countless times after, before leaving for the Wall.

So close to the edge, she almost falls again but catches herself before spiraling into the destructive chaos of love because _Gods_ , she can't survive that again.

Turning away, Daenerys closes the nursery door behind him and enters her own chambers. He stops outside the doorway, not wanting this, whatever it is, to end -- ever.

She looks over her shoulder at him, seemingly contemplating something before saying, "Stay here tonight," and then cracks a small smile at the perplexion etched on his face. "In that guest chamber, I mean."

He turns to see the door opposite the hallway and nods in gratitude. "Goodnight, Daenerys."

"Goodnight, Jon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, as always, and thank you so much to everyone who left the wonderful, wonderful comments on the previous chapters! Keep leaving them, please lol.
> 
> Also, more angsty arguments to come because I think this would just heighten how livid he is. Okok bye.


	4. Chapter 4

As soon as the door shuts behind her, the small smile fades and reality hits her like a thundering wave. Daenerys drops to the bed, hands concealing her face as a raggedy breath leaves her lungs.

Finding him at her door had felt like some cruel joke, at first. A small part of her felt guilty. She had expected him to ride South once he heard the news but each time she had imagined the events to follow, it was always him, stony and solemn, like he had been in Winterfell, asking to marry her, proclaiming it was his duty to the Princess. She would have rejected him, if that had been the case. Their daughter didn't need someone forced into fatherhood by duty. _This_ , however, was an entirely different play.

\---

Daenerys wakes to loud cries and, sure enough, a glance outside the window shows the sun just about rising. Oddly punctual, she and Rhaella had found a comfortable routine for the mornings: wake at sun up, feed, dress, break fast, speak with the small council, tend to petitioners, all of which would bring her to lunch.

The days are warming, with the spring arriving at last, yet a cool fog blankets Kings Landing in the morning. She hastily ties the knots on her robes and makes her way to the next room. Just as she enters, she can't help but glance back at the closed door opposite the hallway. The room had been for Missandei, who helped Daenerys to and from the nursery when her body was barely strong enough to hold itself up right in the days after the birth. Missandei had tried to hide a smile when she told her to take up one of the small, yet cozy, houses at the foot of the towers with Grey Worm.

She finds Rhaella's face all contorted with cries, strong little legs kicking through the blanket.

"Good morning, sweetling," she coos, picking up the babe and settling into the chair in the corner. At first, Rhaella had refused to latch and Daenerys feared the babe would starve. She had felt like she'd failed, somehow, and that even her newborn daughter recognized that this should not be, she was never supposed to be a mother again. They had found a rhythm, though, and tears of red hot frustration and dread had turned into tears of sweet relief and elation. This was their time, mother and daughter.

It's over too soon, as always, as Missandei knocks on the door to get her dressed for the day.

"Good morning, your Grace," she greets, "and you, little Princess," she adds with a tickle.

They cross the room to the changing table, where she squirms and babbles happily. "Someones in a good mood," Daenerys notes with a smile.

Missandei delves into a story about her daily visits to the orphan homes as they change Rhaella's cloths. The shelters were growing by the day and it had been Missandei's idea to teach them to read and eventually master a trade so they could one day integrate themselves into the rapid flow of the city 

She is a delight, truly, and Daenerys could not be more grateful for their friendship. Without her, she doesn't even know what madness she would have spiraled into by now, surrounded by people all day yet so, so alone in a land that should feel like home but does not.

They move to Daenerys's chambers, crossing the solar into the smaller quarters behind.

By the time Missandei's work is done, tying the final string on her dress and sticking the last pin into her hair, Daenerys has near forgotten to tell her, "Have someone tend to the spare chambers across the hall, would you?" She looks away, pretending to be concentrated on smoothing the folds in Rhaella's blanket.

"Is someone--?"

"And send up some food too -- plenty of it. I doubt he's eaten much recently."

Missandei only eyes her for a moment before saying, "At once, your Grace," and closing the door behind her.

When the next knock sounds, she expects her meal but finds Tyrion instead, with an armful of scrolls.

"What are those?" she asks, bouncing the happy child at her hip.

"Marriage proposals."

That stops the bouncing.

"At least a score of ravens have arrived since you took the throne, your Grace, and two came in yesternight. You must address them."

"I don't need to marry, anymore," she counters in a tone that clearly says she will have no more talk of this. "I have an heir, I have the kingdoms, what use is a political marriage now?"

"You have the kingdoms but some of them in name only. Besides, the people expect you to marry -- you've won two wars, that's not--"

"Who are the ravens from?" she asks emotionlessly. It surprises him.

"The Velaryons have a son. It would continue your family custom of preserving the blood of Old Valyria but most of Westeros still sees them as foreign, so that would not do."

She remains silent to let him continue but she knows her answer. _No_ , like it's always been.

"Don't think you'll be so fond of this one," he smirks. "Jon Arryn's boy sent in a formal proposal. His house members have served as Wardens of the East for centuries, he is the lord of a great house."

"He is a child, and a sickly, cowardly one at that," she counters with a sharpness to her voice.

"A few from smaller houses in Dorne... personally, I would have suggested the Yronwoods, the most powerful Dornish house now that the Martells cease to exist, but their only heir is Lady Gwyneth. Many are from the Westerlands: Brax, Swift, Payne," he recites, flitting through the scrolls. "Yet none are powerful enough in the shadow of Casterley Rock."

All she can do is continue twirling a lock of Rhaella's silver hair between her fingers. Feeling numb is better than feeling pain, she thinks.

"Jason Mallister, honorable and brave and lord one of the few remaining powerful houses in the Riverlands. It is a fair match. As are Houses Hightower and Redwyne in the Reach, for they have the wealth and the numbers. Consider it, your Grace."

She nods absently but has already dismissed the notion. _Does he really think this is effectual_? she wonders.

"Alas, the North."

This catches her attention and her fingers still.

"The Umbers and Karstarks are out of question, as Ned Umber is but a child and little Alys Karstark is all that remains of her house. House Stark, on the other hand...."

"Stop it."

"I know you don't want to hear it," Tyrion says desperately, "but as far as suitors go, your Grace, you _know_ he--"

"Do I?" She finally looks up, using her eyes to burn into his as scornfully as she can.

He sighs, eyes still pleading to just hear him out.

Though she suspects he has already heard from Varys's "little birds", she tells him in a quiet voice, "He rode in, last night."

"Did you expect him to stay away forever?" he asks, unsurprised.

"No," she admits.

"Consider it. If not for yourself, then for the realm; if not for the realm, then for the child."

\---

She contemplates the decision half a million times. It shouldn't be this hard. It's just a simple conversation. She will explain her reasons, Jon will explain his and they shall part like nothing happened. Yes, that sounds quite right. Nevertheless, dread bubbles in her stomach like acid. She's the bloody queen of the seven kingdoms, she can speak with whomever she wishes.

And so she knocks.

The tray of food from the morning had been left at his door, long cold as the day neared noon.

Surely he must be hungry from the journey and no supper before his rest. _Perhaps this is his protest_ , she guesses, but it's foolish. He would never waste good food when it comes so scarce nowadays.

When her knocks go unanswered for the second time, she swings open the door, ready to yell at him for these immature games he seems to have resumed but her words die in her throat.

Jon is sprawled out on the bed, sun filtering in through the canopy curtains and onto his chest. He wears plain breeches paired with a simple tunic which, she tries not to notice, has ridden up to expose his rising and falling abdomen. Coming from the Wall, the blankets were surely too hot for him, as they lay bunched up at his feet. She fails in suppressing a small smile seeing he must have forgotten to take off his riding boots in his exhaustion.

Before over-speculating thoughts make her question her actions, her fingers begin to work at the laces and she slides them off as gently as she can without waking him, knowing how uncomfortable they are. She places the tray of food on the trunk at the foot of his bed where he would be sure not to miss it.

Turning to leave, for he should rest, Daenerys allows herself to look back one last time. His hair is all unruly locks escaping the barely-done bun. It's how she liked it best -- wild curls that she could run her fingers through.

Oh, how she missed the sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!  
> sorry for the delay but i've been so busy with school and barely had time to write. im not sure how i feel about this so please let me know your thoughts!  
> as always, thanks for reading :)


	5. Chapter 5

Daenerys wakes to soft, blurry light, a sated moan at her lips as her body hums with comfort. How long has it been since not a single part of her ached with exhaustion?

The moment is disrupted when her mind finally connects the dots. _Light! Past sun up. It's too silent. Rhaella._

She shoots up, a current of fear jolting through her spine. Before her body can adjust, she's on her feet, making her vision go black and a painful pang resound in her still-healing womb. Her hair is a wild tumult of silver and she's pretty sure the right sleeve of her nightgown has slid halfway down her arm but she couldn't possibly care less. She rushes out her solar to the hallway and into the open doorway of the nursery, ready to face the worst as extreme scenarios flash through her mind.

The sight that meets her, though... Dany can't determine if it brings more relief or pain.

Jon is pacing the nursery, beaming at Rhaella's little fingers reaching up to grab at his loose curls. His smile fades when he looks up to see her in the doorway, replaced with nervousness and concern.

She lets out a labored breath, a hand over her panicked heart and the other on the door frame. " _What_ ," she breathes, "are you doing?"

"I--Sorry, I just... I heard her crying and you looked so tired before, I didn't want to wake you, so I thought I could... help."

She pauses. A part of her is all anger and possessiveness. _How dare he touch_ my _daughter without my permission, after all he made me go through?_

Another voice, however, perhaps the more reasonable one, argues that his actions are out of sympathy for her, and pure love for Rhaella. She had seen it in his eyes that first day. _He just want to help. Let him._

"Oh," is all she says, regaining her composure. _Oh_.

Rhaella's soft features start to scrunch up and a mighty cry forms in her throat.

"Hey, hey," Jon tries to soothe with a gentle voice, thick with his Northern accent, "it's alright," but it's to no avail.

"She's hungry, Jon," Daenerys tells him, reaching out to carefully take the child.

He simply nods and hands her over, glancing up to see her pull at the top tie of her night gown and settle in the chair.

"I should..." he begins, eyes flitting everywhere but to her before he starts toward the door.

"Oh, please. I think you and I are way past modesty. We created her, after all," she says with a hint of humor.

"Aye." Daenerys notices him smile for a split second and the way his cheeks go up, making his eyes crinkle at the corners, is identical to Rhaella's.

"She looks so much like you," she says, scanning her features to find little echoes of his own.

He just shakes his head, saying "That smile? All you."

She gives a small laugh, though she would argue otherwise.

"There it is," Jon says, a lopsided smile on his own face.

It's so easy to be with him, to be happy around him -- how does he do it?

They fall into a lull for a moment and she seizes the opportunity to confront the problem before polite conversation leads to something more, something she's not sure she can handle. "I expect you're staying for the tourney but when you leave for the North, you don't have to worry about her. She will--"

She can see the hurt, and then anger, in his eyes before it detonates as he says, "So you're going to raise her by yourself without letting her know who her father is, not even--" Exasperated, he has to take a breath to steady himself and he quietly curses at the ceiling, hands unclenching from fists.

"I will care for her, protect her, love her more than anything, you know I will -- I _do_ ," Daenerys says firmly, cautiously. "She shall never want. Every joy and happiness that we forewent, she will have. You have my word, Jon." She doesn't avert her gaze once, then, because she needs him to know that she speaks the truth.

"Except a pair of loving parents."

It's his calmness that makes the words hurt so much, an agonizing twinge in the very core of her chest. She's rendered speechless, her frantic heart bobbing somewhere in her throat.

"An amazing mother, aye, but no whole family or true father to call her own," he continues.

And with that, Jon leaves the room, footsteps echoing loudly down the tower steps.

Rhaella begins to whimper.

\---

Anger throbs through him with every step.

What kind of parent is she to distance her daughter from her own father? And what would become of Rhaella when her mother inevitably has to marry some pompous lord?

Daenerys did not have her parents, growing up, but she knew who they were and made it a strength of hers. Jon, on the other hand, had not a clue who his mother was. It was cruel, the constant underlying knowledge of being unwanted, nights and nights of imagining what his mother was like and how different life would be if she had been there to love her son instead of the cold Lady Stark. It is not a good life for a child.

He pulls his hood up past his eyes and begins walking, no destination or path in mind, just a burning need to get away.

By the time his rage burns off, breath evens out, he doesn't even know what part of the city he's in, nor how long he's been gone.

He looks around, finally, and is appalled by the difference from when he last walked these streets. The poor that begged at the corners, with hunger and hopelessness coloring their faces a gaunt grey, were no where to be seen. The filth that had given the city it's foul odor was missing and he noticed sewer grates to the far right. As he passed a building with a destroyed front wall, inside he saw scores of children all sitting in rows, mimicking the letters a woman at the front wrote on a large piece of parchment.

 _She did this_ , Jon diccerns, and it makes his chest swell with pride. He could not have chosen a better queen to support, a better person to love.

Can it still be called that? Love?

As he looks back at the Red Keep, the remaining towers going blurry with the distance, he realizes what he is doing. He's running. Again.

What kind of parent is  _he_  to walk away so easily? To let his temper get the better of him when he was at fault for not being there in the first place?

Eyes trained on the second tower, Jon's feet carry him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is sort of a prelude for the next chapter, which is turning out to be so fun to write. sorry if it's not the best writing but you guys!!! thank you so, so much for the amazing comments on every chapter, you have no idea how much they mean to me!


	6. Chapter 6

It's past noon by the time he finally makes it back to the tower. This time, the guards let him pass without question.

As he's going up, however, he hears muffled voices from her solar. He can't quite make out what they're saying, except for a few distinguishable syllables here and there. Just as he's about to enter his own bedchamber, not wanting to eavesdrop, the door opens.

A maester walks out, heavy chains of all kinds of metals clinking as he descends the stairs.

Daenerys thanks him and before Jon is able to step into his own rooms, she catches his eye and almost looks confused before quickly turning away and shutting the door behind her.

He only sighs. It all feels so impossible, at this point, yet he can't help but worry. _Later_. he decides, _I'll speak with her later_.

He's changing out of his clothes, dirty with sweat and dust from the city streets, when a knock sounds.

Quickly dressing, he goes to answer it and is slightly disappointed when he finds the kitchen girl who brings his meals. She's holding a platter with eggs, a small barley loaf, slices of hard cheese, and a pastry he doesn't quite recognize.

"Just on the table there," he says, letting her in. "Thank you."

She nods wordlessly and takes her leave.

Jon sits down at the chair, stomach growling just at the sight of the food. The Wall had always been harsh in terms of food but now, with destroyed land, relentless storms, and harsh roads, all they had left was bland bowls of brown, just the bare minimum to keep a man going.

When he takes a bite of the odd sweet, the spongey texture gives way to a burst of rich honey. _Honeyfingers_ , he thinks.

A memory surfaces, then. They were on the King's Road, just days from Winterfell, when Dany had told him how badly she craved honeyfingers.

"I've never heard of them," he'd said, speech muffled with sleep.

"Mm, they're wonderful."

She had been curled against him, back pressed to his chest, his arms wrapped around her waist in a warm embrace against the biting cold.

"I'm afraid we don't have such luxuries, at the moment, but I can get you the sugar cubes meant for the horses, if it please your Grace," Jon had chuckled.

She huffed angrily and shuffled away, but was unable to keep the smile off her face.

"I'm sorry," he'd laughed, reaching out to her hand. "Come back."

She'd turned around towards him as he pulled her close, arms twined around her back, and pressed a kiss to her clavicle.

"They make them in Tyrosh," she told him, fingers running through his hair. "The Western Markets were my favorite places in the Free Cities. If Viserys or I found a dropped coin or a stranger was generous enough to give us one, I'd always get honeyfingers. They're so rich, I'd give anything for one now."

"When we get to Winterfell, I'll have the bakers make them for you," he had promised.

He never did get to the bakers, though. Soon after their arrival, the news from Bran had sent him spiraling into a destructive cycle of confusion and isolation.

He remembers her trying to bring him out several times -- she once approached him in the crypts, came to his chambers in the night, asked him to stay back after a small council meeting -- but each attempt had gone unanswered.

It makes the sweetness turning sickeningly bitter on his tongue, thinking how, in his stupidity, he pushed her away when she needed him just as much as he needed her.

He has to push back the tray of food, instead finding a quill, ink pot, and roll of parchment in the drawers. He writes to Winterfell, missing his siblings more than ever, now, and crafts a separate letter for each of them. They far exceed the length he had originally intended but the words just seem to fall on the paper before his mind can keep up. He doesn't mention Rhaella or Daenerys.

Jon then writes to the Wall. His men had known that he was leaving but they still expect him to be back within the moon. He leaves out the part about never wanting to return but gives them instruction to last at least the next three months, with a detailed calculation of figures for budget, men, food, horses, and the like.

As he signs it and puts it aside with the other scrolls, he makes a mental note to ask the servant girl to deliver them for him tomorrow.

Sitting back, Jon sighs and the first thing his eyes land on is Long Claw, standing neglected in the corner. He remembers how long it's been since he properly trained. His muscles have finally gone from a throbbing ache to a slightly numb state from the weeks on horse back.

He knows the Unsullied train in the courtyard below his tower, along with knights who use it to practice for the tourney. He hears their blades from his window early each morning but they are silent now and so he decides to go, lacing up his jerkin and buckling on his sword belt.

Thankfully, the training yard is empty, except for two city boys who run off laughing when they see someone coming.

A line of sparring dummies is set up along the tower, opposite the stable yard just a few feet off.

As he unsheathes Longclaw, images of the dead play before his eyes, far clearer than he would like to remember them. He seldom has use of the longsword now but training has always been more for his mind than for his physique. From childhood, when Lady Stark forbade his presence at feasts so he would be hacking away at a dummy in the training yard, to being a new recruit at Castle Black, when his only pride was in his ability with the sword.

Now, as the Valyrian steel cuts through the thick, tightly woven fabric, spilling wood chips onto the ground, the murky fog weighing over him dissipates and the tension in his muscles eases.

Down the line he goes, practicing every parry he can think of, wielding the heavy blade with an expertise they say the singers sang about through the streets of Kings Landing after the war. He's raising his arm to deliver the last blow on the fourth dummy when a voice calls out from behind him, saying, "Is he dead yet?"

He immediately recognizing it, the dry humor and the sharp tongue, and turns around to its owner leaning against the gate, a flask in hand. "Lord Tyrion." It's then that he notices how late it's gotten, the sun nearly dipping into the horizon, painting the sky hues of pinks and oranges and blues and purples.

"Lord Snow," Tyrion echoes, raising his drink.

Jon had always held a certain respect for the man, even back when they travelled to the Wall together. Slight hatred and annoyance too, but respect all the same. Their mutual drive to protect the Queen at all costs has only furthered this.

He seems to contemplate something, before saying, "You know, a wise man once said to me--"

"What is you want to say?" Jon interrupts, never one for the pointless, mitigating verbiage.

"Very well," Tyrion says, walking toward him. "I'm rooting for you, Jon Snow, I am, but you can't expect her to welcome you back with open arms and then stalk off when she doesn't."

"I didn't--" he starts, disbelieving.

"But you _did_ ," Tyrion presses. "When she--" he pauses then takes a breath and starts over. "I know the revelation with your parentage was a shock but you have to understand what it meant for her, too."

It echoes Jon's fears from beginning of it all, making shame creeping up his neck. He hears an exasperated sigh and the crunch of wood chips as Tyrion walks away.

Almost as if an afterthought, he adds, "Go to your chambers, she wants to speak with you."

The Hand raises his flask once again and takes a swig before rounding the corner.

Jon looks up to his window, high up in the tower, and it's only a matter of seconds before he sheaths the swords and bounds ahead.

The steps come two at a time before he finally slows at his door, breath labored and an apology forming at his lips. It opens to Daenerys standing by window with her hands folded on the sill. Like the nightgown, it's sleeves trickle to the floor. _It's suits her_ , he thinks, seeing the Southern corseted fit and the flare at her hips, but beneath the skirt, raised slightly off the ground at the front, he can see the boots and trousers she always dons.

"Taking out your anger, were you?"

He shakes his head, eyebrows furrowed, and breathes, "No." As if finally coming to his senses, Jon motions for her to sit at the bench by the foot of the bed, taking the opposite side.

Just as he's about to speak up, she says, "I wasn't trying to trick you, you know, the witch really did tell me I would never have more children." He can tell she tries to mask it, she really does, but, knowing her so well, he makes out the nervousness anyway.

He almost feels incredulous, that she would even... _Does she really think so low of me_? "Daenerys, I would never--"

"No, but if the thought ever does come up," she says dismissively, eyes fixated on the ring she always wears on her forefinger.

"I'm sorry," he confesses, disregarding the long-winded apology for the truest form of sorrow, making sure she knows how deep it runs. Her eyes dart away from the ring and meet his at last.

"For what?" Daenerys asks carefully, as if his answer holds immeasurable weight.

"For everything... for not being here." He wants to grasp her hand, for words never came easy for him but with a touch, he can communicate all that is unsaid. Still, he retracts, not sure if it would be welcome.

"You couldn't possibly have known--"

"I should have been there from the beginning, Daenerys. Back in Winterfell, I should have spoken with you after I found out about my parents, I should have been there for you when we got news of Viserion, I should have been by your side when she came into this world."

They don't break eye contact, not even for a second, and he notices something shift in them. " _You're_ the one who left, _you're_ the one who--"

"Aye, but I regretted it every second. Every league I travelled North, I wanted to turn back, Dany."

She's quiet, then, and for a second he thinks his foolish words have her considering his plea. At last, the fire returns in her eyes, burning and scorching. "I'm sure it must have been _very_ hard for you, Jon."

He sighs, desperately wishing he could reword it all, start over again, and just praying she would see that this foolish Northerner of hers only meant good.

Jon notices her bottom lip start to quiver and it takes every ounce of restraint to not pull her into his arms at the sight. _Oh, I'm so, so sorry_. She closes her eyes too and when she opens them, they stay starring at her hands folded in her lap.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't be...." She sounds sad, defeated.

"No," he says, "you should. I acted stupidly from the beginning. You should."

She shakes her head. "I understand, Jon, I do. I just wish... I wish you'd spoken with me at Winterfell, or at least listened when I talked to you. I would have tried to help you with whatever was going on in your head. And if you still wished to leave, I would have given you my support."

He almost doesn't believe she's real, then. _What did I do to deserve you, Daenerys_? Another voice speaks up, making his heart heavy with guilt, saying, _Yet you still managed to lose her._

The silence between them thins until finally, she says, "It's the most terrified I've ever been. It took a day and a night to bring her into this world." Her voice is quiet and soft, almost as if she's telling him something secret. "I felt like I was dying, I was so certain of it, yet all I could think of was what would become of the baby. For all I knew, you had made it clear that you wanted nothing to do with me and I feared you'd reject her, as well. The only people left to care for her here would be Missandei or Tyrion or the like but they wouldn't be able to protect her for long before some lord or the other comes marching in to take the throne. They would have killed her, like they did with Elia's children, or off she would've gone to exile in Essos. It is not a good life for a child."

Speechless. That's how he feels. Every particle of air turns to poison in his lungs, searing as it leaves his agape mouth, and a pain, worse than any other, resounds from deep within his chest, spreading to he tips of his fingers. "Oh, Dany," he breathes. And when he hugs her, holds her tight and kisses the top of her head between apologies, she _lets_ him. Her hands scrunch up against his chest, holding him close by the fabric of his tunic.

"I don't want your pity, if that's what this is. I don't want to guilt you into this," Daenerys whispers against his collarbone.

He just shakes his head and quietly _shh_ s her, running his hands down her hair to the nape of her neck and back again. He wonders if it would be too overwhelming to tell her how much he loves her.

Jon's own eyes burn with tears as he feels hers through the damp spots on his shirt.

They stay like that for only the Gods know how long. He takes the time to relearn the feel of her, the press of her body against his, the softness of the silver waves which are now longer than they've ever been, the jut of her shoulder blades through her gown, the dip of her waist, where an arm hold her close like she might vanish into air any second.

Slowly, he senses her ease against him, nestling closer to fit her head under his chin, but her grip on his shirt remains just as vice.

When her breathing starts to deepen and he suspects she's close to sleep, he curves an arm under her knees and carries her across the hall and through the door at the back of her solar. Her eyes open halfway there but she doesn't protest. He lays her on the bed and pulls the blankets over her her shoulders, knowing she prefers the warmth.

He glances back one last time, her eyes finally fluttering shut, but just as he turns around, her hand catches his with surprising strength.

"You're leaving?" she asks, her voice raspy.

"I'm just across the hall," he says with a kiss to her knuckles. "Sleep, Daenerys."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologize for the long wait (again) but thank you for all of your amazing support! it means everything <3
> 
> sorry if this sucks lol


	7. Chapter 7

He dreams of Rickon. Sweet Rickon, who would try to play and fight with his older siblings on his chubby little legs, who just got caught up in something much greater than him. What was it that Daenerys said? Spokes on a wheel. One family on top, and then another, as the innocents at the bottom get crushed.

The thought shakes him awake with a sheen of sweat over his body, Rickon's sharp gasp still echoing through his ears. His hand is reaching out in front of him but once again, it only grasps at the air.

Jon looks around to find that it's still dark but the Keep is alight with activity. He moves to the window, taking in gulps of the cool breeze to ease his hammering heart.

Parts of the castle that were reduced to rubble are being cleared away, making room for new structures. He notices something massive that looks like a hall, and several turrets further away. Lords and knights from across Westeros are arriving with entourages from their regions in preparation for the tournament. The streets grow denser by the day, filling up with dancers, singers, acrobats, merchants, and smallfolk alike. It's not nearly as extravagant an event as those held during King Roberts reign but the country rejoices all the same. After all, Jon can't remember the last time people had good cause to celebrate, one that didn't involve massacre or sacrifice.

A carriage rolls up, dark oak exterior painted with a grey border and the small flag donning a direwolf. The details click in his mind and he rushes to dress somewhat properly, quick fingers pulling back his hair as he descends the stairs.

He sees them before they see him but soon enough, Sansa steps to the ground with Arya's help, after the smaller girl quickly dismounts her dapple grey. They look up in unison and immediately break into smiles.

_Oh, it's been too long._

Sansa, in a summer dress like the ones he remembers Lady Catelyn wearing, has her hair done up like a true Northern lady, while Arya still wears her hair like their father did, half of it pulled back, but the fighting leathers are gone, replaced by riding pants and a flowy tunic.

He smiles back, the biggest one he can muster, as they bound toward him. They both go to hug him, the three of them colliding in a warm embrace.

"Jon," his sisters say, almost with relief.

" _Gods_ , I've missed you," he tells them, looking at each of their faces and seeing the differences from when they last met. He still regrets not leaving with a proper goodbye, but he's heard about it plenty in the letters they shared afterwards. Arya smiles brighter, and carries herself with less tension. The scar down her bottom lip is finally healing, now a barely noticeable line. Sansa's cheeks have retained that pinky glow that was dulled from too many years of suffering at the hands of too many people, and her eyes are alight like he's rarely seen them. Still, he detects the fatigue etched in their faces and postures, surely from weeks on the road. "We'll speak in the morning. Go, rest, both of you," he says, pressing a kiss to Sansa's forehead and ruffling Arya's hair.

"I'll find you come sun up," Sansa agrees, making her way to where the guards lead them up to guest chambers in the western tower. With one last smile and a hasty, earnest "it's really nice to see you again, Jon!", Arya's off too, following her sister.

It's then that he notices Ser Davos in the distance, unloading a trunk from the carriage.

After Jon rode for the Wall, Davos had decided to travel to Winterfell with the rest to advise Sansa for the time being, as they made efforts to rebuild the war-ravaged kingdom.

Noticing him, Davos comes in for a surprisingly firm hug which draws a chuckle from Jon. "It's good to see you, Ser Davos," he smiles.

Davos laughs with him before suddenly remembering something. He reaches into the pocket of his thin cloak and out come two wooden figures -- a dragon and a wolf, he thinks. Almost nervously, he holds them out to Jon. "For the Princess," he says. "It's a long, boring journey, I whittled 'em m'self. It's not much but--"

"Thank you, Ser Davos," Jon says, fascinated by the detail put into each, and taken aback by the sincerity of the gesture. "Really, thank you."

Davos... kind, caring Davos, who chose to stay by his side when his own bannermen refused to join him. A trusty advisor, but also his good friend, the knight was the only true company at Dragonstone for a time, where he teased Jon about this intimidating Dragon Queen whose beauty he couldn't seem to stop starring at. It feels centuries ago yet somehow so, so close, too.

\--

Sure enough, Sansa is at his door as the sun's first rays hit the Black Water.

"Good morning," she greets, stepping into his bedchamber. "Arya refused to join me in the carriage -- I suppose it's too _ladylike_ for her -- so she didn't get as much rest on horseback." Sansa rolls her eyes, to which Jon laughs. _How it feels good to laugh again_ , he thinks. "Now she's passed out in our room. I didn't wake her but I'm sure she'll come storming in as soon as she's awake."

"That's alright," he chuckles, and gestures her to sit at the low bench.

"How are you?" she asks seriously.

"I'm good," Jon says, almost like a reflex.

He can tell she doesn't buy it but is thankful when she doesn't push the matter either.

"And how is Daenerys?" She searches his face for clues but he remains stoic, until at last he looks up with a sad, desperate sigh.

"I don't know, Sansa." Jon runs a hand over his face, closing his eyes for a moment.

"How is she dealing with it? You and the baby and all."

"She doesn't trust me," he finally says, "and she's well-justified in not doing so but... Gods, Sansa, I've messed up." His arms motion in emphasis.

She remains silent for a moment, contemplating something. "Back in Winterfell, she wanted to tell you."

_What?_

"She almost tried, I think, but we agreed you needed some space. You were still trying to cope with everything Bran told you and, besides, she was fighting a war she didn't know she'd live through. She didn't want you to feel obliged to do something, only to have neither her nor the baby survive."

He plays it back in his mind twice, confused yet understanding. "How... how do you know this?"

"Her seamstresses and tailors were practically sewing her a whole new wardrobe, all over-large coats and furs, and she was missing meals, claiming she was sick. When I found her, she heaving and nauseous. I brought her ginger root the next day, something I remember Mother taking when she was with pregnant with Rickon... and we talked."

 _Was it not more important to tell him, the bloody father of the child? And did she really think him so horrible that her death would only hurt him if their child passed with her?_  A minuscule part of him is roiling with negativity, but only presents itself with a small tendril of rage, evident in the way he clenches his jaw for a split-second. Instead, Jon takes a deep breath, allowing the air to cool the instinct. Anger and argument are no use. Besides, he knows his faults, and so he nods, sad eyes looking downward.

"I don't know how to fix it," he ventures quietly, the hopelessness in his tone making Sansa's heart clench.

She takes his hand in hers and gives it a reassuring squeeze. "Speak with her, Jon. Not talking about how you feel is what brought us here in the first place."

"You know I'm no good with words," he says with a dismissive shake of his head.

"Then show her."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ones pretty short but i promise the next chapter isn't that far in the future!
> 
> my writing style isn't as poetic or pretty as some of the wonderful, wonderful authors on here so the fact that this fic has even made it to chapter 7 and the lovely support from you guys makes me so happy!! 
> 
> thank you for the amazing comments and kudos and hits :)


	8. Chapter 8

The later events of last night are hazy to Daenerys. She remembers feeling drained, his arms around her, so comforting and familiar and warm that she managed to lose all rationality in them, then the slight jostling as he stepped toward her bed. Finally, there's an image of his hand in hers as he made to leave. 

 _You fool_ , she tells herself. She had only meant to clear any misunderstandings she may have caused but the words kept slipping through her lips unchecked and now she's left him thinking of her as a pitiful mess.

As she tends to Rhaella, who's having a particularly fussy morning, Daenerys can't help but feel that even the baby understands her frustration.

Fed, cleaned, oiled, changed, and every other thing she can possibly think of, yet it all fails in quelling the piercing screams. She resorts to just holding the babe against her chest and patting her back. "Hush now," she says, "hush, Rhaella."

Even after a month, she still feels like a new parent, desperate to be the best mother possible. Two weeks after her birth, Daenerys had sent away Lyara and Akili, the maids who looked after Rhaella ‘round the clock, only calling them in when she has to address her queenly duties. She wishes for them now, and hates herself for it.

"Can I help?"

She turns to the voice in the doorway, the feminine lilt very familiar.

"Sansa!" Daenerys exclaims in joy, shifting the baby to one arm and embracing her with the other. She looks different, something about her pinky cheeks exhuming joy that she hasn't seen before. She notices Jon standing somewhat sheepishly behind her.

"Oh, Daenerys, she's absolutely beautiful," Sansa says, bending down to pinch Rhaella's chubby cheeks, all red from crying. Her little fingers reach out, fascinated by the new person and Sansa places her hands under her arms, lifting the child into her own arms.

"She's not having a particularly good morning, I'm afraid," Dany smiles sadly, smoothing down her disheveled gown.

Sansa, however, seems to be in her own little world. Her fingers twist around one of Rhaella's silver curls as she admires her features and mimics her nonsensical babbling.

Jon and Daenerys share a smile at the role Aunt Sansa seems to have taken on.

"When did you arrive?" she asks.

"Late last night," Sansa responds, trying to free the fabric of her dress from Rhaella's finger. As if abruptly made aware of the outside world, Sansa looks up with an, "Oh! I completely forgot! Arya and I brought presents for the little princess." Handing the baby to Jon, she hastily adds, "I'll be right back," before leaving the nursery.

Suddenly awkward, the two stare at each other before Rhaella screams, on the verge of crying again. "Hey," he soothes, diverting his attention, "it's alright, it's only me."

Turning around and biting her lip for a moment, Daenerys goes to the myrwood chest wedged between the crib and the changing table. She rifles through the drawers, looking for a rattle, a doll, _anything_ , that would ease the wailing. Even her voice was growing raw.

It becomes quiet for a moment and she expects a relieved sigh from Jon but is instead met with a groan, followed by "Daenerys…" her name dragged out in a whine.

She looks to find frothy white throw up trickling down his tunic, and a happily-gurgling baby. Daenerys laughs, unable to silence the burst of amusement.

"I'm glad both of you find this funny," he says towards the two of them, trying to maintain a frown but faltering.

"Here," Daenerys approaches him with a cloth in hand. She wipes at the throw up, biting her bottom lip to stifle the laugh. She looks up to find him starring again and shakes her head at his shamelessness, turning to wipe Rhaella's chin.

"Give her to me," she says with a smile, taking Rhaella from him carefully. "Go, change."

It's then that they notice Sansa and Arya appear in the doorway, eyebrows furrowed at the scene before them before dissolving into fits of laughter, especially on Arya's part.

Jon opens his arms, threatening them with a hug, before laughing and heading to his chamber as they evade him.

Dany's heart swells at the sight, the family dynamic so foreign to her. Of course she knows he loves his family and would go to any length to protect them but she has never seen them so free, the teasing and caring relationship so easy for them. When she last saw them together, the weight of the dead was heavy on all of their shoulders. _I hope you have something like that_ , she thinks to Rhaella, but stops short, realizing what that would mean. 

It's Arya's voice that jolts her out of the reverie. "Your Grace," she says in greeting, as they embrace as well.

"You know you don't have to call me that," Dany says against her hair. "You look wonderful." She looks different too -- in the best way, of course. Besides her clothes, it's something in the eyes, or perhaps the glowy smile she gives so freely now, while it would have been a rare sight when they first met.

"For the Princess." The older holds out a package wrapped in cloth with a red ribbon tying it off.

"You didn't have to, really," she protests but Sansa insists. Dany hands Rhaella to Arya, who immediately looks overwhelmed and holds the baby at arm's length before Jon walks in and relieves her with a surprised chuckle by taking Rhaella into his own arms. Daenerys pulls the ribbon and the cloth wrapping unfolds, revealing red and grey fabric below. She holds it up and -- "a dress! Oh, Sansa, it's wonderful! You did this yourself?" Her eyes trail along the perfect, near-imperceptible seams and the embroidery lining the hem.

"It was my pleasure," she says, squeezing Rhaella's cheek one last time.

Arya hands her a smaller package, this one less expertly wrapped. "This one is from me and Gendry."

She looks to her in questioning before unraveling it.

"Arya..." Jon laughs, lifting up a miniature blunted sword, barely longer than his hand, made from a lightweight metal, the blade portion hollow, round, and stumpy so as not to cause any real harm. "I'm not going to arm my one month old daughter."

"Why not?"

" _Because_...." He looks to Daenerys for help.

"I'm sure she'll enjoy it when she's a bit older," Dany smiles, "and send Gendry my thanks. You’ll be close enough to visit when the repairs on Storm’s End are made!"

 

\---

 

Despite the happy morning, the rest of the day is spent being hustled from one place to the other. The stairs still come difficult but Daenerys is determined to conquer them. Maester Coryn advises rest, her maids keep telling her to slow down, and Tyrion wishes she would lay back and let him do all the work for once but she refuses them all. What was a staircase to someone who’d survived exile and chains and war?

She walks the grounds to speak with the builders, a mixed group from Essos and Westeros alike.

They all bow on sight, eyes wide at the sight of their Queen walking amongst them once again. She had always felt it was important to know her people. In times of strife, when it all seemed so overwhelming and impossible, she would remember the faces of the verdant boys who were excited at aspect of bringing honor to their families by fighting in the name of their beloved Queen, and the women that praised her and regaled her with prided stories of their efforts and their children. It made every loss that much more painful, but every victory that much more meaningful. 

Now, they are at work on constructing a new Keep, a task she had left to Tyrion and the architects while she recovered in the days following Rhaella’s birth. She approved and dismissed ideas but her only order was a circular council table instead of a rectangular one. This way, no seat holds more power than another. Then, there is the new throne: an elaborate, yet less intimidating and deadly, structure of dragonglass, all from the caves of Dragonstone. Along with it, there are grand chairs for her council, so to divide the ruler’s power. She trusts her own decisions to be fair but that may not hold true in the generations to come. They cannot have another Mad King or Maegor the Cruel, not ever again. 

After the construction sites comes the tailors’, where her maids escort her. The tourney is to be three days, the shortest amount Tyrion would agree too, and she doesn’t see the use of decorous gowns when so many go without new clothes, but they all insist. She is a queen, now, and her people may not see her as such if she continued to dress as a warrior. The country wants to move past war and battle and death, and so she shall too. 

They spin her and measure her and rifle through color, pattern, fabric, and design options for longer than she cares, ultimately leaving the decision up to the handmaids so she can address matters of graver concern. A delegation of lords from the Reach request her attention regarding further repair to land so it can be plowed and seeded in time for the spring. Many of the Dothraki approach her, requesting wooden horses to travel across the Poison Water so they can go home to Vaes Dothrak. They fought for their Khaleesi, for life itself, but soon they shall return to the Great Grass Sea as a united people, no more petty squabbles between khals or destroying villages as they seem fit. She wants to thank them but simple thanks can never be enough for the gratitude she feels, so she plans to reward them with horses and gold, and makes a mental note to discuss it later. The merchants of King’s Landing call for an alteration in outdated laws regarding trade with Essos so they can increase commerce and, in turn, help replenish the crumbled economy. She discusses matters of coin with her Hand, of uniting the seven kingdoms, houses great and small alike, under one bank to assist trade and taxes and circulation of money. 

Daenerys takes breaks for Rhaella throughout the day, Akili or Lyara appearing every three hours or so. She uses the time to feed, taking a moment of rest between juggling leadership and motherhood. Even Tyrion gets distracted, someone she thought would be least fond of babies. She had found, however, that he was quite close with his niece and nephew, and she recognizes pools of grief and sorrow in his eyes whenever he holds the babe.

As the last meeting of the day concludes, a matter of newly elected leadership in Meereen, she is finally free to find comfort in her daughter’s nursery. She sends the maids away, for their work for the day is done too, and collapses in the armchair, eyes closed to give them some rest as Rhaella, blissfully ignorant, drifts off in her arms. 

“I wanted to talk matters of the Wall with you but I suppose it can wait until tomorrow?”

Dany blinks her eyes open to find Jon leaning against the opposite wall. Had she not notices him enter in her exhaustion or was he already there when she entered?

“No,” she shakes her head, “no, I’m fine. Go ahead, what did you want to tell me.” 

“It’s a letter I received today, actually,” he says, leaving to cross the hall. 

She follows him after pressing a kiss to the baby’s forehead and setting her down carefully, realizing it’s well past the time Rhaella is usually retired to the crib for the night. He rifles through the scrolls on his desk, where she once saw Missandei write letters announcing a tournament to celebrate the birth of a princess. They were to be delivered to major houses and cities across the kingdoms and she remembers feeling a _pang_ when she addressed the last one to the Wall. 

She sits at his bed, automatically sinking into the soft feather mattress and sighing in comfort.

Jon doesn’t hear, though, as his eyes flit across the paper and he goes on about numbers of men and some vow or other and something about resources. With talk of repair and laws and resources and coin near driving her to insanity for the past twelve hours, Daenerys cannot help but cut him off with the first question that comes to mind -- the question that has been haunting and taunting her since she woke up after the last battle just to be informed that he had ridden north.  

“Why did it take you so long to come back?” She hates that her voices sounds raw and vulnerable as she says it, absolutely hates that he does this without even meaning to. 

He looks down sadly, fingers flexing for an instance before he puts down the letter. He slowly makes his way to the other side of the bed and sits, still staring down at his hands.

“I… I just thought…” Jon pauses, seemingly collected his thoughts. “I thought I was doing what was best for you, best for the realm.”

Daenerys almost scoffs. “ _How_ was leaving supposed to be any good for me?”

“I know it’s hard to understand, even I don’t get what I was thinking, most of the time, but it is _so_ difficult, fighting so many wars at once -- with the dead, with Cersei, with myself, with you -- and finding out that I was a result of something that caused war and devastation, every hardship dealt to me for my name could have been avoided, that the mother I yearned for for as long as I can remember was right there, at home, all along, and the woman I love….”

His words makes her heart stutter but his eyes, _Oh_ , the way they look at her now, makes it shatter completely. She knows he struggles with pieces together his thoughts to convey them like he wishes, he told her so one night long, long ago, but through his eyes, she can see every emotion, every hurt, every fear. The whites look a red and when he blinks, the pooling tears wet his eyelashes. (She vaguely registers that he used “love” and not “love _d_ ”.)

Daenerys turns sideways and leans against the headboard, legs tucked up on the bed as well. She reaches a shaky hand out to wipe at the lashes because after everything that has happened, after everything she has suffered, she can never see him hurting without feeling the same ache herself. It’s a terrible curse, this _love_.

When her fingertips tentatively touch his cheek, he closes his eyes. His troubled irises flit around beneath their lids, trying to relax, as her fingers find his hairline and her thumb strokes beneath his eyes to catch the tears.

Jon’s hand catches hers, eyes opening slowly, and he intertwines his long, calloused fingers through her smaller ones. They clasp hands on the middle of the bed, which previously felt like miles and miles of space but now seems all too small.

“And you have to marry, Dany,” he continues, trying to keep his voice as monotonous as he can manage. “I thought that maybe if I was far away long enough, it would be easier for you. It would certainly be better for the realm if you married for duty than for love, and to a Snow, at that.”

She shakes her head furiously, squeezing his hand and sniffling. “No, no.” And then she laughed, an out-of-the-blue giggle that cuts through the air in a chime. “Do you really think I would accept any stupid marriage proposals from any stupid lords?”

He smiles at that, and they sit in a warm silence until the smile fades. “Would you accept one from this stupid lord?”

Dany, however, stays smiling. Her mind had been made up long ago, sometime in a ship carrying them North. “Are you…?” 

“Would you want me to?” 

The true words are left unspoken but she knows what she insinuates when she says, “In time, yes… _yes_ , Jon.” 

“In time,” he repeats, and she can see a spark of hope flair in him.

As she looks between them, she realizes she hadn’t even noticed when they went from sitting to lying in bed, still as far apart as possible but Jon’s hand in hers, his gaze warm and loving with a twinge of sorrow.

And all of a sudden, it’s as if reality comes to strike her in the innermost part of herself, somewhere she didn’t even know pain could reach. She inhales and exhales in quick little breaths, shallow and strained, her ribcage feeling like it is being crushed by some intangible force.

“Daenerys?” He sounds concerned but she has to tell herself it’s temporary, it’s all temporary. 

She had promised herself she would not fall again yet fall she had, and it was amazing and warm and beautiful and terrifying. 

When she covers her face with that mask again, lets her eyes glaze over with a film of coldness, and pushes herself to sit up, Jon clasps her hand tighter for just a moment before loosening it again. “Stay… please.” 

She can only bear to look at him for a moment before turning away and taking quick steps to her door across the hall, and she’s reminded of another time but the same loving stare, the same squeeze of her hand, and the same rejection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... sorry. i know i promised that this would be up sooner but i wrote, deleted, and rewrote it like four times. i hope the length (in comparison to previous chapters) makes up for my lousiness. it seems i've befallen to hate-everything-you-write syndrome. i'm still not that satisfied with this chapter but it is what it is. tell me what you think?


	9. Chapter 9

The door shuts with a loud _thud_ but Daenerys barely registers it as she shakily takes a seat at the edge of her bed. Taking shallow breaths, she clutches the cream blankets until her knuckles turn white.

 _He had_ wanted _me to stay_.

For what feels like the millionth time, Dany asks herself what _she_ wants.

For so long, it had been Jon. The world could have been falling apart around her, the seas could go dry and the mountains could blow in the wind like leaves but everything would have been alright if, at the end of the day, she had solace in his presence.

She had wanted him there to assure her that their child would live, that _she_ would live to bring her to this world, and afterward too, so to protect her and to love her. She had needed the affirmation that even if she were to succumb to the finality of death in that birthing bed, he would be there to carry on.

_But he’s here now and he wants to help so why are you punishing him?_

Their relationship is ever-changing like the tide, blissful calm and stormy chaos all at once. Or perhaps Jon is the coast and she the ocean drift, approaching then receding again and again.

How cruel that she would trust him with her life but not her heart. He cannot win back her trust if she doesn’t let him _try_.

Can she really blame him for needing space? It wasn’t as if he had been outright insulting toward her -- quiet and cold, yes, but never discourteous -- perhaps even _too_ courteous. And she can’t pretend that her own frustration hadn’t been blatantly obvious, sometimes. ( _We have a bloody war to win and a future to protect, so get over yourself and come here and love me again_.)

Dany remembers a conversation she’d had with Tyrion when he first became suspicious. He had seen her absentmindedly rest a hand on her stomach, where her clothes concealed a barely perceptible swell. She was gazing into the fire, pondering and searching for answers she knew would not be found there, as she waited for her small council to clear out. Tyrion, however, had stayed behind, going unnoticed in her distracted state.

“Have you at least been seen to by the maester?”

Her hand had reflexively moved away as she startled. “What are you--”

“ _Don’t_ try to fool me,” he’d said with an unusual harshness to his tone. She remembers how he had taken a deep breath and glanced at her stomach, how his expression had slowly soften to a one of concern and care. “Does he know?

There was no need to ask who “he” was.

“No,” Daenerys had responded simply. “He won’t be happy. But he’ll act out of duty and I can’t do that to him, Tyrion.” She hated how her voice sounded so weak, like a frail maiden’s.

“You have to tell him. Let him decide for himself.”

“He has already decided.”

“You don’t know that.”

Now, Dany wonders how different things would have been if she had listened to Tyrion instead of ordering him to leave.

The question of whether or not Jon would have returned to her if it weren’t for Rhaella had gnawed at her for weeks and now she knows that this stupid hero of her’s had stayed away so she might marry a politically sound match.

He never did know how to balance love and duty. Perhaps they can learn together.

Together…. It’s that thought which brings her to loosen her aching hands.

She would normally have Missandei or one of the new handmaidens help her undress and draw a nice bath but she supposes it’s too late for that tonight. Dany undoes the knots at the front so she can pull her arms free and step out of the skirts, then uses the mirror propped on her dresser to unlace the corset hugging her body. She usually goes without one, for comfort and for Rhaella, but it is the southern fashion, needing to be adhered to when she spends her time outside the Keep’s walls. She takes the pins out of her hair next, refashioning the intricate design into a simple braid running down her back.

Slipping into a nightgown and knotting the ties over her chest, Daenerys takes sure steps toward Jon’s door.

_“Stay… please.”_

She doesn’t knock, in case he is already asleep, and is glad of the decision when she finds him unroused.

Her quiet feet bring her to the side of his bed and she has to take a breath to quieten her worried heart before slipping beneath the covers.

For a few moments, she just observes him. There are new lines on Jon’s face and they crease slightly as he dreams. His eyes move rapidly beneath their lids and all of a sudden, his breathing becomes uneven. He takes sharp, intermittent breathes and fidgets his fingers, still trapped in his vision.

Dany clasps them into her own, running her thumb over his knuckles to ease the tension that’s made them stiff.

Though still asleep, he clearly relaxes and squeezes her hand in a brief spasm. Moments later, his breaths becomes slow and steady.

She allows a small smile to grace her lips before shutting her eyes and letting the rhythm of him carry her off to sleep.

 

\---

 

She had fallen asleep at night with both of them on opposite sides of the bed, only their hands connected in the middle. When she wakes, however, the side of her face is pressed to his chest with one of her legs hiked up over his, and those warm arms wrapped around her protectively.

Rhaella’s cries, the source of her disturbance, grow more urgent as she untangles their limbs, trying to stifle the emotion making her pulse quicken. _Had she done that in her sleep? Or had he woken up and pulled her closer? No, Jon wouldn’t do that._

Dany almost acts on the urge to crawl back into his embrace when the cool air hits her as she sits up and covers her face, which she knows is probably glowing red, with her hands.

Sensing the movement and the increasingly loud cries, Jon’s eyes open. When the haziness passes and he registers the scene around him, he visibly startles and blinks at her.

She only gives a small smile and reaches up to tuck loose strands of her hair into her braid.

“I thought…. When did you--?” He cuts himself off with a deep exhale.

“You were asleep when I came back,” she says simply.

“You should’ve woken me. I… wanted to apologize, I shouldn’t have been so forward, Dany. I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me so I didn’t follow but--”

“There’s nothing to apologize for.” Jon opens his to mouth to protest but she interrupts him again, stepping off the bed and reaching her hand out for his. “Shall we?”

He looks confused until she motions toward the nursery with her head. Smiling that wonderful smile, he grasps it and gets up, following her out the door and into Rhaella’s room.

“Is she always up at this hour?”

Dany laughs at the complain in his voice. “Yes, everyday. Missandei will be here soon to get me ready for the day, then Tyrion. The nursemaids will come in an hour or so.”

He nods, peering into the crib at the tiny baby thrashing. She reaches into it and lifts Rhaella up, who continues to kick her feet furiously but eases the screaming.

She places her gently on the changing table, a hand caressing her head to carefully ease her down to it. Dany grabs a small cloth from the pile and begins cleaning the baby up after unpinned the nappie. “Grab a bigger cloth from the second drawer there,” she tells Jon.

Happy to be able to help, be brings it over.

“Watch how I fold it, you're going to need to know if….” She leaves the rest unsaid but from the spark of hope in his eyes, she knows he understands. _…if you want to stay, if you can, if_ I _can._

As she's folding the cloth, which has almost become something she doesn't even have to think about anymore, she looks up to check if he's paying attention. She finds his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes trained on the nappie, as if his life depended on this knowledge, and smiles.

She fastens the pin back in place and slides the little night dress, of the softest cottons in Essos and Westeros alike, back over her tiny body.

Impatient, Rhaella’s face scrunches up once more, just on the verge of a mighty cry.

“She's got a pair of lungs on her,” Jon laughs, discarding the soiled cloth into a bin to the left of the changing table.

“Oh, definitely.” Dany picks up the babe and settles into her usual armchair. She pulls at the top string of the night gown so the bawling babe can satiate her hunger.

After a few moments of absentmindedly stroking Rhaella’s silky soft hair, she looks up to find Jon leaned against the wall and smiling at her with his arms crossed.

“What?” she asks, almost defensively.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head but that stupid smile doesn't budge.

She playfully rolls her eyes at him. _Shameless_.

“You're beautiful.”

Daenerys looks up at him, an eyebrow raised in surprise at the blatant comment.

“I don't think I told you that enough,” he adds with a sad tinge.

“Trust me, you did.” Dany smiles despite herself, remembering the way the words tasted as breathy sighs against her lips.

Jon only shakes his hand and averts his gaze. “I wasn't much of a brother to them until they got a bit older but I remember all my siblings as babies -- Sansa not so much, I was only 3, but I remember her bells. Each time, they rang the bells from dawn till dusk to celebrate.”

She notices the melancholy flicker across his face, just a glimpse, and she realizes there were no bells for him, no one had celebrated his birth.

“Lady Stark did not like me too close to her children, of course, but when Arya was born, my father brought her to my chamber while Lady Stark was resting. She was just a little bundle, Dany, so small I didn't think she was real. I remember she smiled up at me.”

She was so lost in his words, picturing Jon as a boy with baby Arya, that she didn't realize Rhaella had finished and was pleasantly dozing off. “Tell me more.”

“Bran and Rickon were both born during the summer snows. Bran learned to walk very early. By his second name day, not even Maester Luwin could stop him from running off to try to play with all the bigger kids.” He smiles fondly at the memory until it fades, replaced with a solemn frown. _Rickon_ . “Rickon was only _six_ when I left. He was always so happy, so bright. Even as a baby, he never cried. Gods….”

Hurriedly getting up, Rhaella in arm, she walks to him and places her free hand to his cheek. “Shh… don't, it's alright.”

Jon looks up from his folded arms to the sleeping babe at her breast to, finally, her eyes. “I love you.”

  
The words sound familiar on his tongue, like an old promise, something that simply _is._ Of course, it's not the first time he's said them to her. She wishes it was possible for there to never be a last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi again!
> 
> everything seems sunshine and rainbows at the moment, but they're sort of just avoiding having important conversations so more on that to come.
> 
> i know updates aren't so frequent but i promise i would never abandon the story! the thing is, i've had the very last chapter for this written for weeks, i just don't know how to get there.
> 
> your comments last chapter blew me away so thank you so much for your kind words, please do keep giving me your feedback.


	10. Chapter 10

 

Jon doesn’t know what makes him say the words but he knows that they are true _._ They always have been, sometimes even the only truth he was sure of. And so, when she looks this beautiful with her curls springing free in a silver halo and their baby at her breast and that _look_ in her eyes, the words just feel natural.

“I love you.”

It’s hardly the first time he’s told her and even then, it wasn’t necessary because he’d made sure she already knew. Still, it feels like a first, like a fragile bridge has just been crossed and the roaring chasm beneath is but a fading memory of the past.

She purses her lip in what he knows is a smile she’s trying hide and looks down. He can only imagine the look on his own face but his cheeks already hurt from grinning so hard and a breathy laugh spills through as a flush colors her skin pink.

Jon doesn’t need her to say the words back. He wasn’t expecting her to as he said them, he just needed her to know that despite their world having been flipped on its axis, this is something that is never going to change, not ever.

“Go get dressed, Jon,” Dany says simply. “Then wait in my solar, you’re joining the council meeting.”

“I am?”

“Something about the Wall, remember?”

He nods as he recalls reaching out to her the previous night about the letter from Alyn but their conversation had drawn him away despite the urgency it had held before. “Right.”

Before returning to his room, though, Jon steps closer. He senses the apprehension in her posture, unsure of what he is doing, but it diminishes as soon as she realizes that he only wishes to press a kiss to Rhaella’s forehead.

He’s only held his daughter a handful of times yet the magnitude of love he feels cannot be put into words. His heart almost clenches when he thinks of it all, of what it could have been. He shakes his head, dispelling the thoughts.

He goes back to his room, finding the scroll among the pile of the desk. Practiced fingers lazily pull the winding strands of his hair back and secure them in a knot as his eyes search the room for more proper clothes. Jon finds his belongings neatly organized in the trunk in the corner and mentally thanks the maid who must have stopped by to clean up yesterday while he was with Sansa and Arya.

Minutes later, he’s about to enter Daenerys's solar with the letters in hand when he hears loud footsteps making their way up the stairs. Jon turns to find his old advisor turning the corner and stepping up to the landing.

“Ser Davos,” he greets with a nod and a smile. “Joining the meeting?”

“Your sister sent me on her behalf -- something about the dressmaker's, Your Grace.”

Jon doesn't have to guess which sister that is. “Don’t think that title is quite correct anymore,” he says, gesturing the man to come in as he opens the door and takes a seat at the long table.

“All in time, I suppose.”

Before Jon can shake his head and deny it pathetically, the Lord Hand walks in, thankfully without the flask Jon had seen him with the other day.

“Lord Snow, Ser Onion Knight,” he addresses them both with an almost comical formality, taking the chair adjacent to the one at the head of the table.

“Do tell me, Lord Tyrion, how did you manage to rid the city of that stench of shit and scum?” Davos laughs. “Don't think any of the other twenty -- twenty-one? -- rulers accomplished such a feat.”

Immediately, there's a brief, proud glint in Tyrion’s gold-speckled eyes, and rightfully so, Jon believes.

“Simple enough of a task,” he begins, but Davos expresses his doubt with a scoff. “The city's sewer system has been deteriorating for years now, though no king saw the common folk’s quality of life worthy of the throne’s coin. Daenerys, obviously, disagreed.” A soft grin graces Tyrion’s lips, one that shows pride moreso in the ruler he's chosen to support. “You're familiar with wildfire, Ser Davos,” he says, looking up at the man with an apologetic furrow of his brows.

Davos nods solemnly, perhaps memories of the son he had lost plaguing his mind.

“The Mad King had miles and miles of tunnels built beneath the city, running along each street, under each structure. We had the pyromancers find a deterrent that makes it no more unsafe than the Blackwater and the tunnels were emptied, installed with grates, made into sewers, and now all the shit keeps itself off of the streets.”

It is a simple enough plan though Jon cannot admit to ever being able to think it up himself. As Davos praises him, the Spider enters, the long sleeves of his robe nearly hitting the floor.

He greets them all in that ever so calm voice of his before taking a seat across from Tyrion. Jon doesn't miss the look they share for a fleeting moment -- a knowing grin that he can only guess the meaning of.

“Didn't know you would be joining us this morning, my Lord,” he says to Jon, who's almost surprised that anything gets past the Master of Whispers.

He nods, explaining that there are matters of the Wall Daenerys wants him to present before the council.

Though Jon can't help but be weary of a man that seems to know things as they occur thousands of miles away, one who lacks loyalty to his Lord and would rather scheme and lie than speak plainly, he does hold a certain respect for Varys. There is power in knowledge, and while he may have plotted behind previous kings’ backs, Jon knows he had reason enough.

Grey Worm enters next, silently sitting and obediently awaiting the Queen, who arrives moments later with Missandei at her side. The stoney facade of a soldier cracks into a brief smile and his eyes warm to the doey glance Missandei shoots his way.

Naturally, all in the room stand until the Queen herself sits at the head of the table and Jon can't help but feel as if he's back in Winterfell all those moons ago when his only source of sanity and purpose were these daily meetings yet even then he felt lost.

This time, however, there's a familiar smile at her lips and a pink glow to her cheeks instead of that cold veil he'd been met with before. Those stifling furs and coats meant to keep a Southern queen, conditioned to Essos’s eternal summers, warm are replaced with a gown with long sleeves that dip low and a neckline that cuts across her chest, elegantly exposing her shoulders and neck, where a dainty silver chain rests against the creamy skin. Jon likes that it isn’t too extravagant, though, and finds himself thinking that that the beautiful fabric makes her eyes look more indigo than amethyst. He's reminded of the spring sky smiling down upon them all once the heavy clouds of winter had disappeared.

His attention is brought back when Dany signals for Tyrion to speak first and he finds himself rather intrigued with the ways in which they’re rebuilding the city, or rather the country.

Tyrion begins with the efforts made to reconstruct collapsed building, raise homes and halls to house and feed those displaced by the wars. “The builders have yet to touch the fallen sept, your Grace. They are awaiting orders, perhaps a new design to signal a new reign, or a project with an entirely new purpose. The small folk already have several smaller septs located around the city, though no High Septon to lead the faith. They wonder if you will be resuming the system Cersei had set in place before… well….”

“No,” Daenerys responds immediately. “I don’t follow the Seven, or the Old or the Many or the One, so why spend money on a grand sept solely for the royal family?”

He notices her bite her lip when the last words slip through, eyes glancing up at Jon before seamlessly continuing. It’s a small exchange, he doubts that the others even noticed, but important nonetheless, as he wonders what she’s thinking.

“Matters of faith should remain independent of the throne. There will be no High Septon, though the people will naturally have clergies in their own smaller septs.” She finished with a confident nod.

“And what shall be made of the rubble and land where it stood?” Varys questions, neither approving nor opposing the idea.

“Build a home for the sick to treat their wounds and see to their needs.” Suddenly, she looks away from Varys and back to Jon again, holding his gaze. This morning he had seen Dany but right now, she’s the Queen. Still, the difference between the two is far less distinct than it used to be. “Your friend has returned to the Citadel? Sam?” she asks.

“No, not yet,” Jon responds, hastily adding, “your Grace,” as he momentarily forgets his courtesies.

Daenerys is amused by this, shown in the slight raise of her brows and a flicker of a smirk, and as are the rest, though less discreetly so.

“Sam was still in the North when I last spoke to him,” he explains as Ser Davos nods in confirmation. “He was tending to the wounded with the maesters sent by the Citadel once they realized he was telling the truth.”

Varys speaks up then, adding, “News from Oldtown says that there is growing unrest within the Citadel. It began when the archmaesters remained resolute in their denial of the unnatural attacks from north of the Wall until it was too late to act. My little birds tell me that has grown into contempt among the novices and acolytes who can now openly express their dissatisfaction with the way in which they are trained.”

“And what do they propose?”

“There are whispers of wanting a new seneschal, one who can implement a better, more efficient system.”

The pieces fit perfectly in Jon’s mind but Dany beats him to it. “Very well. Write to Sam, Jon,” she says to him. “From what I know, the maesters respect him despite him leaving his studies unfinished. If he wishes to take up the task then it is his. Once the Sept is replaced, we can move the sick from the various sick houses and provide maesters and acolytes who have earned their silver chainlinks to see to them. We’ll discuss it more once you have a reply.”

Jon nods, already knowing how happy he and Gilly will be to hear the news. Though Sam would never admit it, his old brother in ll but blood always has always been way more competent than he gives himself credit for, including his ability to lead.

“You told me you had news from the Wall?”

Though they speak strictly about matters concerning the realm, it lacks the harsh edge that had threatened them in previous meetings during the war.

“Aye. When I was there, supplies were low and game was scarce but the men managed on thinning wheat rations and bowls on brown, with the rare rabbit stew or venison when the hunters and trappers were lucky. Yesterday, I received a raven from one of the boys and he tells me than supplies are even lower now and the rain has made it difficult to transport food in wagons. I know that conditions are similar across the country but if there is anything that can be spared--”

“We received shipments from the Reach recently, mostly greens and roots but they’ll be sent North at the closest opportunity. Tyrion, please see that a ship is prepared at once.”

“Of course, your Grace,” the Hand says with an approving nod.

“They also wish to amend the vows of the Night’s Watch,” Jon extends carefully.

As expected, he’s met with surprised looks from around the room, save Grey Worm and Missandei who are likely unfamiliar with the binding oath.

“I understand that they are rather… harsh, but the rules has been in place since Brandon the Builder put up the Wall,” Varys says, brows furrowed.

He almost rolls his eyes. _Yes, I, former Lord Commander, of all people, was not aware._ “Most of the people are there because their homes were destroyed and their families had no place to sleep or eat. Many of the them, men and women, want to continue to man the Wall after the castles are rebuilt and the letter says they wish for new vows, so those with families aren’t separated and others have the freedom to one day marry and have children of their own.”

He was told that the rules were set so to make sure those who joined the order did not have distractions, outlying loyalties that may draw them away from their purpose of guarding the realms, something many still believe wholeheartedly.

Jon, however, understands their wants. As adamantly as he had once refused to father children, it was purely out of fear of condemning an innocent child to the treatment of a bastard. Despite becoming a ranger, like his Uncle, having been a dream of his, he remembers the dull ache in his heart as he took his vows, already grieving the child he thought he would never get to hold.

Now, having glimpsed at fatherhood himself, having held a babe of his own blood and lain with someone he did not think it possible to love so much, he knows the power that such “distractions” and “outlying loyalties” hold. He did not have much value for his own life before but if he had had that family then, Jon knows he would’ve gone to any extent so he may continue to protect them.

Though he hadn’t expected any different from her, Dany approves easily, sending a surge of affection through him. “Have them draft a proper oath and deliver it South.”

They move on to the North, as Ser Davos explains much of what Jon already knows through exchanging letters with him and Sansa -- food shortages, rebuilding Last Hearth and Karhold and destroyed parts of Winterfell, trade negotiations with White Harbor and Essos, and so on, all of which are resolved with ease.

Jon loses count of the number of times he thinks ‘ _She’s so good at this.’_ because she truly is an enigma. “ _I was born to rule the Seven Kingdoms,_ ” she had said, and he now knows the great extent to which that is true. Of course he’s always known that she is good and fair and strong, in the grey area between conqueror and liberator but seeing her like this? It’s another sort of magic entirely.

Daenerys Stormborn is a Queen in all that the title endows.

Soon enough, a young woman with auburn ringlets, presumably one of Rhaella’s nursemaids, raps on the door and peaks her head in, eyes finding Dany’s. Apparently this signals the end of the meeting, as the scrape of the chairs fills the room and everyone files out.

He'd hoped to follow Daenerys to the nursery, where the girl had closed the door behind them, but is stopped by Tyrion requesting a word.

Jon agrees, trying to mask his disappointment, and follows him down the winding staircase and out the front gate, then up another flight of stairs to what he assumes are Tyrion’s temporary quarters.

Jon finds himself in a room much smaller than his own. Every piece of furniture and even some parts of the floor are covered in literal stacks of books, including the chairs, so he opts to leaning against the poster of the bed as Tyrion rummages about, clearly looking for something.

“I take it you're not joining the lists for the tournament,” Tyrion says, briefly looking away from the papers he is searching through.

“And what makes you think that?” Jon knows he's right, of course, but wants to know the reasoning regardless. Jousting and lance would be an all too easy win for him, and perhaps a good second or third in archery as well. Besides, with his status, he's expected to compete.

Tyrion scoffs with a smirk. “You're your father’s son through and through. You've no interest in blunted swords and splintering lances; it's quite clear.”

 _Your father's son_. Jon turns to eye him, gaze narrow. He doesn't know much about Rhaegar Targaryen but there's not a single person in the Seven Kingdoms who hasn’t heard of the infamous tourney at Harrenhal. Whether or not Prince Rhaegar had wanted to compete, he had done so regardless and sparked a rebellion. How would not wanting to join the lists make him any more his father's son?

The confusion must be plain on his face because Tyrion elaborates. “Ah, apologizes. I meant Ned Stark’s son.”

The comment would have made Jon upset had it been made four months ago but with time to reflect and room to breathe up North, he's realized the truth of it -- embraced it, even.

“He saw no use in tourneys either,” Tyrion continues. “Didn't find amusement in violence, rather saw it as an inborn ability that he must use with _honor_ to do his _duty_ and _bring justice_.” He smiles sadly, as does Jon. _He was such a_ good _man._

“You’re right,” Jon says, reading some of the titles of the books by his feet, one titled _Tales and Legends of the Long Night_ , sticking out to him. “I’ve had more than a lifetime's fill of fighting.

“It would be quite romantic, don’t you think? Ride gallantly and defeat the other knights to present your queen with a crown of blue winter rose, proclaim your love and win back her heart like they do in the songs,” he chuckles, throwing his arms out for dramatic effect. “Symbolic, too, with your parentage and whatnot.”

Jon almost laughs at the idea. “She’s not some blushing maiden who’ll weep and jump into my arms at some flowers and a few fancy words.”

“No, she’s not…. I’d like to show you something, Jon.”

Still turned away, he waves his hand over his shoulder to call him closer to the desk where papers are splayed across the surface. There’s four sets of sketches, detailed and from different angles, each a different take on a set of… _crowns_?

“What’s this?”

Tyrion takes a deep sigh before saying, “I spoke to four of the artists city’s best artists -- those that had not already fled to Essos or Dorne, of course -- and asked them to simply design crowns without any specific orders as to the details. Daenerys and I agreed to sit down with the options, pick one, and have it made in time for the tourney but this… this is what they returned to me.”

Still not sensing the problem, Jon looks closer at the designs. All of them have two crowns, one slightly more dainty and feminine than the other. They all incorporate dragons in some way, some with scales, one with three adjoined dragon heads at the front, and another with shards of dragon glass protruding upward around the ring.

Three of the four also have wolf motifs, he notices with a small gasp, lips falling agape -- the head of a white wolf at the crown, the fur pattern on the Stark sigil, small engravings of running wolves mirrored on the two sides.

“This -- how do they? Do they think that I’m--” In shocked, a messy string of words slip through unchecked.

“Apparently so.” Tyrion nods solemnly, though Jon notices the slight smirk but can’t tell if he believes this to be good or not.

He _himself_ doesn’t know what to think except _How?_

“Word travels quickly, Jon Snow, especially when two lovestruck royals make virtually no attempts at hiding their romance.”

“We weren’t _that_ \--”

“Wooden walls and canvas tents muffle little sound.” Tyrion scrunches up his nose.

 _Had we really been that lousy at being discreet?_ For their time on the ship, he knows the answer is yes. It was a different world there, though he knows that’s hardly an excuse. Surrounded by miles and miles of the sea made it difficult to remember a warring world outside of the warm comfort of that cabin. Even on the road to Winterfell, visits to her tent had been daily, even if they sometimes did nothing but huddle together to battle the growing cold. Though the encounters were more scarce at Winterfell, he knows Dany sought him out at his chambers on some occasions, where anyone could have seen, especially since the keep was overflowing with refugees. _Fuck._

_How did this get all the way to King’s Landing, though?_

Though back then, people noticing would have only brought a red flush to his cheeks, this is a different matter entirely. They had left such an obvious trail, of course -- the serving girl that brought breakfast to Dany’s room, the steward who tended to his own quarters and probably found the bed untouched each day,  the crew and captain that surely noticed the King in the North slip into the Queen’s chamber, the innkeeper where they stopped for a night, any of the people that littered Winterfell day and night….

“But that doesn’t explain me being _King_ , I haven't even had a coronation.”

“As far as they know, neither has she. There was no formal announcement sent out.”

Jon sighs. “That still doesn’t mean that we’re wed, they don’t have any proof.”

“They don’t?”

_Oh._

“The Queen falls in love with the King in the North, both are rather open about their relationship, and she becomes heavy with child months later, then proceeds to throw a tourney for the babe, whom she names her heir. Far too much for a bastard, even a royal one, wouldn’t you say?”

Ultimately, Jon lets out a sigh of defeat. “Has she seen them? What did she say?”

“She has not seen them but it seems a good thing, doesn’t it? The common people already assume you two to--”

“A _good_ thing?”

“ _Think_ , Jon. Rhaella is to be Daenerys’s heir so she is already legitimized, though not publically, but there would be no need if we perpetuate this belief. You’d have a _trueborn_ daughter, no disputes over her claim, no more war, and you know just as well as I do on how bastards are treated in this world,” he says in a pleading voice.

Of course the circumstance of his daughter’s birth has been at the back of him mind form the moment he learned, even more so now that he can actually put a face to the Princess that Kora had told him about in that inn. Such innocence should never be subject to what he has endured, he will make sure of it.

“Daenerys has a good heart. She wants to dispel this hierarchy that crushes people like you and me but we both know change of that sort takes more than one lifetime,” he finishes with sad yet hopeful eyes looking up at him.

It almost seems too perfect, too _easy_ , even though it’s holed with flaws, and Jon realizes -- “ _You_ did this, you suggested a tourney to celebrate. You knew that was the way to make them certain that she’s trueborn.”

Tyrion lowering his gaze is the only confirmation he needs.

“It’s not right.”

Even without looking, he knows Tyrion is rolling his eyes.

“Lying to the people--” Jon begins before he is interrupted.

“Hm, it’s not exactly _lying_ , think of it more as just… omission!”

“ _Omitting the truth_ from the people already feels bad enough but I do hope you do know I would never agree to hiding anything from _her_ , right?”

Tyrion waves his hands around dismissively. “Of course, I would never ask you to. I’ll speak to her on the morrow, I assure you.”

Soon enough, Jon leaves the room with a bitter taste in his mouth and a conflicted heart.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy.
> 
> i feel like i start off every note with an apology but i really do mean it, guys! this has been a rough month, to say the least (i know -- excuses, excuses). with exams and more testing coming up, i've been focused on academics and the little extra time i used to have to write has been taken up by work and physical therapy from fracturing my foot a few weeks back. i tried to set aside at least 20 minutes before bed each night to write but this really is just a hobby of mine, i can't systematically produce satisfying ideas and work if i'm not in the moooood, ya know? (spoiler: paramount stress does not foster creativity and satisfaction.)
> 
> this week, however, i'm taking some mental health time so i'm writing more! my other multi-chapter story will most likely be up tomorrow, as a sort of "thanks for stickin' around!" and perhaps even a one-shot?
> 
> but really, thank you for the support you've shown to this, as what started out as a silly way to pass time but has now turned into something that brings me great joy.
> 
> as always, tell me your thoughts! i know this chapter is a bit more heavy on the outcomes of the war itself than our beloved ship but i do want to create a vivid world that would only enhance the characters and their relationship.


	11. Chapter 11

It’s another day of petitions and pleas, though now in the newly finished throne room.

Daenerys had intended on asking Jon to join her, to sit beside her on the throne so they may work alongside one another again but his bedchamber was empty after she left the nursery after the council meeting.

The people’s demands are becoming easier to meet. When the petitioners first came in, asking for food to feed their people and money to rebuild their towns, she would have to send them away with vague promises for all they desired. The throne itself was buried in debt, and the realms’ farmers could reap few crops in the slowly ebbing winter.

Now, however, word of Daenerys Stormborn and her victory in the Sunset Kingdoms has reached many in Essos. They know of her ruthlessness when it comes to slave masters, and so to win her good favor now that she finally has the most powerful seat in the world, they send ships stocked with goods, crates and chests filled to the brim with gifts of silks and spices and delicacies unheard of.

Their time will come too, when the masters kneel like those in Meereen and Yunkai and Astapor did, but she isn’t in the position to turn them away just yet. Their bribes are valuable. She can distribute the food shipments to those who need it and use the more rich items for trade to circulate coin.

At last, the last petitioner of the morning bows his way out, a Storm lord thanking her for a promise to rebuild the ports that the rain and gale destroyed. Grey Worm escorts Daenerys from the throne room to her temporary home in the tower, where she hopes to find Jon.

To her surprise, he doesn’t hear her climb the steps or walk to his door and peak her head in. He looks stressed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms, and leaning forward in the chair to rest his elbows on the desk.

So, she steps behind him, tenderly placing her hands on his shoulders to perhaps ease the tension from his muscles.

He jumps, opening his eyes and whipping his head around, but his gaze softens when he realizes it’s just her.

“Hi,” she says, rubbing her thumbs in circles. She has missed being able to simply touch him like this, to be close without any barriers.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you coming.” He looks over the scrolls laid out over his desk and sighs.

“Is everything alright?”

He hums, nodding his head, and brings his hands up to place over her’s and then hold, in an intimate gesture. “I’ll have to speak to Sansa about this. Some of the Free

Folk wanted to return to their fishing villages and such beyond the Wall but we allowed the rest to settle in the Gift but now there are complaints from the smaller keeps and villages around Queenscrown and it’s just….” He sighs again.

 _Queenscrown_ … she has heard the name before and tries to remember. Ah, the holdfast abandoned due to decades of Wildling raids.

“Well,” she says, with a squeeze of his hands, which are rougher than she remembers them to be, “I asked Sansa to join us for lunch so she will be here soon, you may discuss it then but I would prefer talk of something other than politics, I am sick and tired of it.”

He chuckles. “Your rule began four months ago.”

“I am a queen, not a politician, Jon Snow,” she smiles, though the line between the two has always been blurry.

After a beat, she moves toward the door, saying, “Join me in my solar once you’re done with that. I’ll be there after I see to Rhaella, I should have fed her an hour ago.”

“She hasn’t cried for you,” he says, confused.

“Well, _I’m_ sore, so she best be hungry.”

His mouth forms an O in understanding.

Daenerys asks the nursemaids out, some of whom curtsey while the others give a respectful nod. It’s an odd jumble of women. One of them is a Dothraki widow, Akili, who sometimes brings her own toddler son with her. Lyara, however, is of King’s Landing. Upon first arriving, Dany had been wary of the Keep’s staff, knowing spies and traitors lurked everywhere in disguise, but Varys confirmed that the girl is innocent. Though she is quite young herself, she has a way with infants due to her raising several younger siblings. The third is an elderly Northern woman named Elayne, a bastard of house Flint who cared for the children of refugees at Winterfell and took notice of the Queen’s condition. Somehow, the three of them manage to work quite well together, often taking shifts to watch over Rhaella when Dany cannot be there.

Daenerys finds her baby girl kicking her feet happily and screaming in joy, watching the mobile above her spin as the warm breeze dances through the room. At the sight of her mother, her steel grey eyes avert to meet Dany’s violet, and she flashes her a big, toothless smile.

The maester says that her eyes cannot see clearly just yet but she is beginning to recognize her mother’s face. She already knows Daenerys’s voice and the touch, which she usually eases at immediately.

Dany picks up the babe and holds her high, much to her amusement, and hugs her to her chest.

She sits, placing Rhaella on her lap where she waves her mittened hands around, trying to grab at strands of her mother’s hair. A barely conscious act now, Dany unties the string to have the neck of her gown fall open but momentarily forgets about the corset underneath. She normally forewent complicated clothing but today’s venture into the new throne room required walking amongst the common people, who expect their Queen to adopt their culture since she already looks foreign enough. With a groan, she mentally scolds herself for not asking Lyara to lend a hand before dismissing her.

She has to pull her arms out of the sleeves then reach back, shoulders and elbows and wrists twisting awkwardly, to undo the knot and pull at the zigzag of strings until they're loose enough for the stiff fabric to slide down her torso. As it goes, Daenerys has to sit back and take a breath, somehow exhausted by the task.

Impatient, Rhaella begins to whimper, momentarily soothed by a soft “there, there” before she finally latches on, long, light lashes resting on her pink cheeks as she closes her eyes.

Dany gets up, allowing the top half of her gown to pool at her waist along with the slack corset.

They try to keep the window to the nursery shut as often as possible, only letting the sunlight shine in through the glass, but it is too nice a day and so they're open just a crack. The wind filters through, making the sheer curtains float gracefully.

As Daenerys moves to the window, a group of poorly dressed boys running about the street, waving sweets in the air with huge smiles, pass before the tower.

When the Red Keep fell, they had not only discovered the miles of tunnels stocked with wildfire, but also stores upon stores of grains, honey, salt, sugar, spices, and dried vegetables and fruits of all sorts, some that she couldn’t even name. The abundance of food had made her sick to the stomach. She had seen the gaunt, starving faces on the streets as she marched her way up Aegon’s Hill, empty eyes staring at her with unceasing hopelessness. She had distributed it as evenly as she could manage and tasked the Unsullied with patrolling the city to avoid thievery.

The boys remind her of her own childhood, though the sweets were from the eastern markets instead, but still rare enough that she would grow just as happy at the chance of buying one.

Daenerys feels a pair of eyes on her back, a dark blur in the corner of her vision. She doesn't even have to fully look to see who it is; his presence is all too familiar. 

Still, she says nothing, allowing him to stare for a few moments longer before looking down to the nursing babe in her arms and saying, “Look, Rhaella, Father is spying on us.”

She had said it in a playful tone, yet the word _father_ still manages to make her heart dip. Of course Jon is their child's father but now he can be _Father_ , with a capital F, because it's more than just the circumstance of her conception -- it's his role, too.

A deep chuckle sounds from behind her and Jon steps in. “You caught me,” he says, putting his hands up in mock defeat.

He doesn't step much closer, but Dany almost wants him to, though she tries not to act on that desire.

Instead, Jon places two little wooden figures on the chest, where they blend in with the dark, lacquered top.

Dany has to go closer to make sure she saw right and -- yes, it's a dragon and a wolf. The detail alone has her in awe, staring at the intricate scale patterns whittled onto the wooden hide, and the silky long fur that belonged to Ghost, though now in a rich mahogany instead of snow white.

“They're beautiful,” she breathes, wanting to reach out and touch them but her hands are too preoccupied with Rhaella. She didn't know Jon had talent with a whittling knife, or even the time, really, so she turns to him and asks, “You made them?”

“No,” he shakes his head, looking at her and then back at the figures. “Davos did.”

 _How_? is Daenerys’s first thought, since the man does have only five fingers, and even those are all of his left hand. Still, she knows only Ser Davos would be so thoughtful and patient to work away at them, presumably for hours on end.

“Thank him, for me.”

He nods. “He wanted to come meet Rhaella, actually,” Jon says, eyes glued to the babe, whose suckling is becoming increasingly lazy and infrequent. 

“Oh, he knows he needn't ask.”

“Mhmm,” Jon agrees, somewhat absentmindedly.

Rhaella coughs against her, a little dribble of white foam on her pink lips. “It's alright, now,” Dany says, rubbing her back up and down. Jon hands her a towel and she can see him desperately trying to keep his gaze elsewhere. She never did see feeding their daughter as a sensual act, though she supposes there's an extent to how long he can watch without other intruding thoughts.

Gently wiping off, she throws the towel in the hamper and holds Rhaella out for Jon to hold so she can pull together her clothes. “Hold her for a bit so I can….”

Of course, the corset refuses to cooperate. Dany manages to pull it back up but the strings aren't smooth enough to glide through the holes so she realizes she'll have to tug at each crisscross individually until reaching the bottom and securing it with a knot. Not three holes from the top and her arms ache, stretched back uncomfortably, and she's about to let go and give up, call for some maid or the other to help but she feels rough fingers join her's at the strings.

“Here,” he says, carefully handing the baby back so he can use both his hands to tighten the strings, just enough so it is still comfortable.

She mumbles a “thank you,” but the quiet relief of her muscles is overwhelmed by his presence. He doesn’t even touch her bare flesh yet manages to leave her skin tingling.

“I didn’t know you knew how to do up a lady’s garments, my Lord,” she then muses. Before coming to King’s Landing and having all these new gowns tailored for her, Dany’s attire had consisted of great, warm cloaks and coats over a simply underdress with a line of buttons down the back, and thick trousers to protect from the cold.

“I don’t,” he snorts. “But it’s like shoelaces, yeah?”

She can feel his deft fingers move quickly along her spine as she nods and says, “And just a simple bow at the end.”

Gods, she can even feel his breath at the nape of her neck, making the hairs there stand taut.

Finished, he admires his work before lifting the neck of her gown so Dany can just slip her arms through the sleeves, switching arms for Rhaella.

It's an odd dynamic they have now, somewhere between reliving memories of the past while walking along a delicate line so that they may make more in the future. The world has changed so much, as have they, so she knows they must take it slow lest it all crack and crumble. It’s as if each move and each word holds more weight, more depth, than it ever did.

It’s frighteningly complex and alluringly simply.

As Dany turns around, she recognizes the voice of Lauryn, a young servant girl from the kitchens, at the door. “Pardon, Your Grace, we’ve brought your meals,” she says.

“Thank you, you may set it in my solar,” Dany calls out. A moment later, she adds, “And send for Lady Sansa and Arya, Lauryn.”

“At once, Your Grace.”

Rhaella squirms and whines, pulling her head away from where she tried to rest it at her mother’s shoulder.

Wordlessly, Jon holds out his arms in question and Dany hands her over with a slight chuckle. “You’re sure? After what happened yesterday and all?”

He smiles back, the corners of his eyes crinkling the way she loves so and nods. “Yes, I’m sure.” Then, addressing Rhaella, he adds, “No getting sick on me this time, alright, Princess?”

Dany leans back and takes in the scene, watching Rhaella blink her pretty, grey eyes at those of her father. Quietly, as if afraid she may break the moment between the two, she instructs, “She just ate so hold her upright.”

They stand in a tranquil silence before Jon looks up, as if just then remembering that they were talking about something before. “I didn’t know you were this close to my sisters… or at all, really.”

“Mm…” she hums, nodding. “Sansa more so, but Arya did stop spying on me a few weeks before we left for the capital.”

“I can’t say her years away from home did much to help her trust, but she always has been quite protective.”

“As is her right.” Dany takes a breath before allowing the mood to grow more mellow. “Missandei helps me dress and bathe and takes my sheets to the wash; she knew it’d been too long since I’d bled so she was the first to find out I was with child. Sansa was the second.”

Jon keeps his eyes to the ground as she says this, and she wishes desperately that he’d stop hating himself for not being there. Still, she continues, because he deserves to know now, at least.

“Sansa found me all a mess, retching for what must’ve been the second or third time that day. The only remedies Missandei knew were from her time with Kraznys, where some of the slave girls with her accidentally got pregnant, but we didn’t exactly have access to Essosi herbs.”

“When she arrived, Sansa told me she brought you ginger root to settle your stomach, knowing her mother used to need it.”

She knows she shouldn’t be surprised -- they are siblings, after all -- but it makes Dany wonder how much they talked about her. “And what else did she say?”

“Nothing, really,” he responds with a frown. “Just… why didn’t you go to the maester, Daenerys?”

She shrugs. “I had to when I came to King’s Landing but I was cared for before then, I truly was. I had Missandei and Sansa and eventually Gilly, who has dealt with more pregnancies than anyone else I could find. And a few Dothraki girls later on, one of whom takes care of Rhaella now.”

“And what about the war?” With the controlled calm of his voice, she knows he is trying to keep it void of emotion. “You were out in every single battle, you even _fell_ at one point -- anything could’ve happened, to you _and_ Rhaella.”

Dany doesn’t need to think long for an answer, she’d said it to herself over and over again before stepping out onto the battlefield. “What would be the point of me hiding away and protecting that life inside me if it meant the dead had a greater chance of succeeding, Jon?”

To her surprise, a pleasant one at that, he takes one, two steps closer until their feet are mere inches apart and she can feel the breath on her face when he says, “Gods, how I wish it all had happened differently.”

“Well… it’s in the past.” And then she finds herself saying something she remembers from so long ago, another lifetime, it seems like. “If we look back, we are lost.”

“Aye,” Jon murmurs, brushing a kiss to Rhaella’s forehead and then looking at her for a moment before he seeks out her hand and brings it up to press a kiss to the back of it as well.

The gesture is more tender than anything else and brings a soft smile to her lips.

“Is she asleep?” asks Dany, gesturing to Rhaella.

“She is,” he responds.

“Let’s get her settled in the crib then, your sisters will be coming up soon.”

He does as she says, ever so gently easing the babe off his shoulder and lowering her over the wooden bars and onto the tiny feather mattress, where she sleeps on.

“How come you don’t have her crib set up beside your bed? I expect it would be easier when she needs you in the night,” he questions as they walk out and through the door adjacent to that of the nursery.

“She was with me for about two weeks but then I just didn’t want the nursemaids running about my chambers all day, to be honest,” she chuckles, “though I don’t think it’s so difficult this way. She certainly cries loud enough to rouse all of King’s Landing, no?”

He laughs with her, a deep, melodic rumble from his chest. “That she does.”

In the solar, Lauryn, who usually also serves as cupbearer when Daenerys has company, is just about done setting the table with fine plates and silverware, an assortment of dishes, one Westerosi, another Pentosi, an arrangement of exotic fruit drizzled in a red Braavosi syrup and… lemon cakes?

As he sees them at the same time, Jon grins, saying, “Sansa will probably cry with joy.”

Daenerys is about to question why when Sansa herself enters, accompanied by a guard who leaves her at the door before shutting it. At once, those Tully blue eyes of her’s land on the plate of dessert and she gasps, stopping in her path.

“I take it they’re a favorite of yours then?” Dany says.

“Oh, I haven’t had one since I was a girl! How did you even get a hold of lemons so quickly? The trees are barely in blooms.” Sansa walks closer, taking her seat across from Jon where he sits beside Dany.

“A number of shipments came from all over Essos, perhaps they managed to escape the harshest parts of winter there.”

At this, she makes a mental note to ask the cooks to send a crate of lemons up North when they depart after the tourney.

“Where’s Arya?” Jon asks as Lauryn silently weaves through, serving a steaming stew, some raw greens spiced the way they are in Lys, and rolls of warm bread with a pattern cut into the domed top. 

Finally taking her eyes off the lemon cakes, Sansa answers, “On our way South, there was someone she wanted to meet at the Inn at the Crossroads but they said he had gone to help with a nearby mill. She rode back this morning… something about warmed pie?”

“That far? Will she even be back by the time the tournament begins?” Jon inquires.

“She took one of the little Dornish mounts, with permission from the stable master; she’ll be back in three days time, she said.”

Lauryn fills two of the three cups with a deep red wine, likely from one of the endless flagons they found beneath the Keep, and pours a rich apple cider for Daenerys, knowing from past meals that even now, the maester cautions that she mustn't drink wine since she has decided to forego a wet nurse.

When Sansa then talks about her new gowns for the tourney, and some to take with her to add some color to the North, Dany thinks she looks ages younger than the

Sansa she’d known in Winterfell. For that reason alone, she is glad that Tyrion talked her into throwing this damned thing in the first place.

They eat leisurely, savoring the rich food denied to all for so long, and Sansa as good as finishes off the plate of lemon cakes herself, at which Dany and Jon share a smile.

As the last is cleaned off, Lauryn begins putting all the china away to be carted off to the kitchens.

They say their farewells, tip-toeing to the nursery so Aunt Sansa can pay a visit to her niece, who doses on peacefully.

The brief recess comes to an end, Sansa heading off to the jeweler’s, Jon going to meet with the Northbound ships captain to discuss numbers, and Daenerys attending a meeting with Tycho Nestoris of the Iron Bank that runs far longer than she would have liked.

The day seems to drag on and on, her only respite coming from the two times she gets to see Rhaella in the midst of her duties and promised time with Missandei when the sun finally hangs low in the dark orange sky.

After having to sup with Lord Caswell of Bitterbridge to arrange negotiations on the distribution of abandoned lands, all she truly wants is to fall into a hot bath.

She thanks the gods that Missandei knows her well enough to have the copper tub dragged in and filled by the time she arrives, only made more alluring by the aroma of calming oils mixed in.

“You are a godsend, Missandei,” she says, letting her shoulders slump after having to maintain stiff posture all day.

Missandei only shrugs, as if it's no news really.

With her held, Dany peels off the gown and corset and slips into the tub so the hot water can erase the binding fabric imprints on her skin.

Practiced hands pin her hair up before leaving to stow away the gown and bring out a cool nightdress, allowing Dany to just have a good soak, then return to scrub the day's exhaustion off her skin.

“You're quiet,” she says at last. “Is everything alright, Missandei?”

“Oh yes, Your Grace. I’ve just been… thinking.”

Dany raises an eyebrow.

“I have a request,” she says, ever so calm.

“Anything, my friend, anything at all and it’s yours.”

She hears her take an unsteady breath before her. “I would like to visit Naath for a short while. I reckon my mother and father are no more but I've just been thinking of it a lot, is all.”

Dany feels a selfish sadness at the aspect of being parted from her dearest friend for weeks, perhaps even months, but it is nothing compares to the happiness she feels for her. It is a well-deserved break, to say the least.

“Of course,” Daenerys says, turning in the tub to look upon her face and resting her forearms on its lip. “We shall prepare a small ship to sail you east, or there are many bound for Meereen already, just say the word.”

The smile Dany receives is one she rarely gets to see, and it reaches her own lips as well.

“Oh, and Grey Worm shall accompany you,” she adds.

“But, the Unsullied--”

“--Will manage. I would have you safe and with enjoyable company.” She winks for good measure, and, had Missandei been paler, she's sure she would've seen a deep blush color her face.

~

Dany hadn’t realized she'd fallen asleep buried under the soft, thin blankets until Jon gently shakes her awake.

“This one needs her mama,” he says softly, moving the hair that had fallen over her face in her slumber.

“Did she cry for me?” Dany asks, turning to her side and patting the space beside her on the bed where he lays Rhaella down. The sleeve on the nightdress is just a thin silk string, which she pulls down over her shoulder to offer the hungry babe a breast.

“No, just very grumpy when I went to go see her.”

She hums, fighting to keep her eyes open and absentmindedly running her fingers through Rhaella’s velvety curls.

Sated in a matter of minutes, Rhaella pulls away, forcing Dany to sit up against the headboard to properly burp the baby.

“Give her here,” Jon says, already easing her into his arms and against his shoulder. “You go on back to sleep.”

The drowsiness is fading away but she lies down all the same, gesturing for him to sit beside her as she does.

“You're a good father, Jon.”

At that, he looks down and she can tell he doesn’t believe her. “I’m the lousiest father in the world, Daenerys,” he sighs, a hint of humor in his words though she knows that it’s only to mask his guilt.

Dany shakes her head and seeks his free hand to hold. “You are not. Look at you,” she smiles, indicating to sleeping Rhaella on his shoulder. “You’re already doing amazing.”

“I didn’t even _know_ I had a child until just weeks ago. Don’t think that generally makes a good father, no?”

She sighs. “I can’t keep going in circles with this Jon. I need you to stop with the guilt. Please.”

“I'm sorry.”

She raises her eyebrows.

He bites his lip, realizing his mistake.

“You're here now. That's what matters.”

~

Neither of them feels up to taking Rhaella back to the nursery so she sleeps sprawled out on her father's chest.

Jon and Daenerys share a kiss later in the night, just a sweet touch of lips, nothing more. An ache forms in her heart, but the good kind. Definitely the good kind. And another feeling, though she can’t identify exactly what it is.

This night, she doesn't hesitate in lifting his arm to fit her body against his, slinging a leg across his own to press him closer as they let Rhaella’s soft snores carry them off to sleep.

 _Home_ , she realizes. It feels like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a long long chapter (by my standards) for a long long wait.  
> the ending is a bit cliche i know but it is a very real feeling y'all!  
> i don't have a beta so sorry for any mistakes. also, i hope this story isn't just dragging on. if anyone is still invested in it, comments and critiques are very much appreciated!  
> up next: tyrion and varys talk to dany yikes


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